Pile of Bones

by Bailey Cunningham

  “You know a lot about the gens for someone who isn’t a member.” Morgan lowered her gaze slightly. “With all due respect, Domina.”

  “Perhaps I once was a member—of that gens, or another.” She smiled. “That would be a story for another time, though. Stop dancing around my question. What is your part in this, sagittarius? Why are you helping these nemones, clever as they are?”

  Babieca sat up. “We’re not nemones. We may not belong to a gens, but that doesn’t make us nobodies.”

  “Nemo means ‘without a gens.’ That makes you both nemones by definition. It’s no grave insult. Anfractus runs on nemo labor. It’s a temporary condition—for some, at any rate.”

  “We don’t think of ourselves as nemones.”

  “Because you have a sagittarius with you? Because you’re no longer shoveling coal or chasing rats out of my undercroft?” A flicker of the old domina had returned—perhaps this was the true version after all. “Meeting her was a lucky turn of the wheel, but that’s all.” She looked at Morgan again. “Now, my dear—you’ve eaten my boar, drunk my wine, and I’ve asked nothing in return. However, it is customary for strangers to repay their host with a story. Do you really want to violate the laws of hospitality?”

  Morgan started to protest—then thought better of it and nodded. “Of course not, Domina. You’ve been very kind.”

  “She misplaced her quiver,” Babieca supplied.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t quite the way of it.”

  “She was in her cups—”

  “The domina asked for my story, not your inebriated version of it.”

  Babieca raised his hands. “Of course. I’m an unreliable narrator.”

  “I was with a companion,” she continued. “We’d both spent our day on the battlements, and we wanted to share a few drinks. It was a festival day, though, and all of the respectable cauponae were full. So we tried the Seven Sages. While we were drinking, we set our quivers under the bench. I had to use the necessary. When I returned, both quivers were gone, along with my companion.”

  Domina Pendelia looked confused. “Why would he take yours?”

  “He was going to bet it in a game of Hazard,” Babieca said. “Roldan and I were sitting at a nearby bench, and I saw him take it downstairs. He had a grin like a pig in shit. We followed him, and Roldan created a distraction—what did you do, again?”

  “There was a salamander, asleep under the brazier,” Roldan replied. “I convinced her to set fire to the dice. It’s not easy, but stone will burn if the fire is hot enough.”

  “At any rate,” Morgan said, “they helped me recover my arrows. It was peculiar. I realized that a member of my own gens had betrayed me, not even for money, but for the mere possibility of money. These two—” Roldan could see that she was about to call them nemones but then stopped herself. “They helped me without any promise of reward. They seemed like far worthier company than the jackass who’d tried to gamble away my arrows.”

  “The wheel often makes an odd turn.” Domina Pendelia smiled. “Look at the three of you—practically a company. You only lack for one.”

  “Nemones can’t be part of a company,” Babieca said. “A blind spado would have more luck than us finding a quest.”

  “Oh? You seem to have found one already.”

  Morgan reached into her quiver and withdrew the knife, which she’d wrapped carefully in linen. She laid it on the table. Domina Pendelia examined it with interest. Her eyes fell to the gems encrusted in the hilt. If she knew where to properly fence such a piece, she could probably afford to redecorate the atrium from top to bottom. Roldan could almost feel her adding sums and managing possibilities. Finally, she looked up from the blade.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It belonged to the meretrix,” Morgan said. “He lent it to Roldan. In the middle of the chase, we all forgot about it.”

  “This is no courtesan’s toy. Its owner must have enemies.”

  “We thought you might recognize it.”

  “Why? Because I spend my time at court studying weapons?”

  “No,” Babieca said. “Because the make of the weapon suggests wealth and power. This meretrix has to be part of—what did you call it?—the basilissa’s engine. Her inner circle. Why else would he need such protection? Surely, you would have noticed a masked man who spoke with her, maybe even danced with her?”

  “The court is full of people in masks. That’s nothing new. Meretrices have always been a fixture in the Arx of Violets.”

  “The mask was—distinctive,” Roldan heard himself say. “It was silver, with delicate filigree, and precious stones around the eyes. It reminded me of the moon.”

  “It sounds like the meretrix made an impression on you.”

  He looked down. “That’s not important. We can’t simply carry his knife around—if we’re caught with it, we’ll answer to the aedile. There’s no point in trying to sell it. If we return it, he might tell us something more about the fibula.”

  “Wouldn’t it be safer to remain ignorant?”

  “Everyone here used to be ignorant—until we found ourselves alone and naked in a strange alley. Were things really better before Anfractus? Was that bliss?”

  Domina Pendelia looked at the dagger again.

  “I slept better,” she said. “In that other life.”

  Roldan hoped she might say more. Instead, she opened the ivory drawer, withdrawing a wax tablet and stylus. Roldan stared at them both enviously. She wrote a quick message on the tablet, which she handed to Morgan.

  “Take this to the black basia, in the Subura. There’s a guard who watches the door—she used to work for me, ages ago. Show her this, and I believe she’ll let you in. Her shift doesn’t start until twilight, so as noncitizens, you’ll be cutting it close. There won’t be time to take in much of the scenery.” She looked at Babieca when she said this. “If you throw the dice true, you may just find the one that you’re looking for.”

  He could tell that she knew more than she was saying. Had she recognized the dagger? He thought that he’d seen something in her eyes when he was describing the mask. Desire? Fear? He didn’t know her well enough to read her silences.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said. “We’re in your debt.”

  “Yes.” She reached for more wine. “You most certainly are.”

  The sky was beginning to darken by the time they left Domina Pendelia’s. Had they really spent the whole day there, eating and comparing shadows? Time didn’t always flow smoothly in Anfractus. It had the habit of escaping from you, like a cat, leaping swiftly through the open space of an unguarded door. Babieca had matched the domina cup for cup, but she had a surprisingly high tolerance for her own wine. Now he was a bit unsteady. He put his arm around Roldan, leaning on him for support. His breath smelled of cloves and raspberries.

  “I’m at the Arx of Violets tomorrow,” Morgan said. “I won’t be able to meet you until it’s time to visit the Subura. Will you be able to stay out of trouble in the meantime?”

  “Roldan’s going to keep me safe,” Babieca said. “He’s got a knife, remember? And if we run into trouble, I can either sing or get naked. Both have the element of surprise.”

  “Yes. Play to your strengths.” She turned to Roldan. “You heard what the domina said—we won’t have much time once we reach the basia. We can’t just wave a knife around, asking if anyone’s seen its owner.”

  “Maybe the guard will recognize it. Failing that—do you think there’s some secret room full of labeled masks? That would be our best bet.”

  “This is going to go so well.”

  “You had faith in the idea when you were sober.”

  “I’m still sober. I mixed my wine with water, remember?”

  “That’s because you’re sharp as a t—” Babieca’s tongue stumbled over the word. “—sharp as a sharp thing, with lovely barbs and hooks.”

  “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

>   “We should go,” Roldan said. “It’s nearly time.”

  They made their way back to the clepsydra, joining the crowd that was also leaving the city. Roldan studied his fellow noncitizens in the waning light, the people who, like him, divided their time between worlds. Domina Pendelia had slept easier when she was one of them. He barely slept at all. Sleep had always been his enemy, the monster prowling the edges of his thought, waiting for him to blink first. Sometimes he wanted to give in, but his wheels kept turning, powering the infernal machine that refused to gather rust. Staying awake was a talent that helped him in that other life, where reading seemed so dreadfully important. The closer they got to the alleys, the more he was able to think of his twin, the one on the opposite shore.

  Words are his shield. He thinks he can read the whole world.

  Once the sun dropped, the silenoi would appear. They used to hunt beyond the city walls, but now they roamed the streets in packs.

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He smelled something, like a mixture of iron and rain-soaked ground. His alley was close. A part of him always resisted this moment. It wasn’t that he hated change. It was that he feared it. He wanted the alley forever, the blind corners of Anfractus, the smoke, power, and din that made him Roldan. It would all unravel. He couldn’t hold it together.

  Just as they were about to part, Babieca squeezed his hand. “Tack,” he said, grinning.

  4

  THE SALAMANDER WAS SITTING ON HIS CHEST. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. Also, its breath was smoke, which meant that his bed appeared to be on fire. He tried to meet its gaze but couldn’t quite tell where to look. He felt its claws kneading him.

  “You don’t exist on this side of the park.”

  This one thinks it knows everything.

  The kneading grew more enthusiastic. Andrew grimaced. Drops of blood appeared on his bare chest. He felt the lizard shift position.

  What do you desire?

  “I’d need to make a list. Can I get up? My notepad is on the dresser.”

  No. What is the one thing?

  “It isn’t just one thing.”

  It is.

  He closed his eyes. “There is something.”

  We can give it to you.

  “Really?”

  Yes. Would you like to make a deal?

  “What do I have to give in return?”

  You know.

  He swallowed. “Okay. I accept.”

  The salamander paused, one claw still on his chest. You are certain?

  “Yes. Do it.”

  The claw sliced him open. He screamed. The salamander reached both paws into his chest, tugging on the sides of the incision. It grew, until it was large enough to accommodate the lizard’s head. Andrew gasped as it pushed its way inside him.

  Everything must go.

  He woke up sweating. He couldn’t catch his breath. There was a dull pain in his chest, which he tried not to think about. Surely it was indigestion. Nothing a little ginger ale couldn’t fix. There wasn’t actually a lizard setting up shop in his chest cavity. He swallowed around the dry lump in his throat. Coffee first, with a ginger ale chaser. That seemed like the healthiest option. He got out of bed and made his way to the living room.

  Their drive back from the park had been curiously silent. Carl dozed in the backseat, and Shelby kept her eyes on the road. The white noise of the wipers put everyone in a trance. He remembered watching fat drops of rain strike the window, Albert Street a blur of trees in shadow. Then there was the silence of the house, a short fall into the empty bed. Sleep as heavy as hemlock, until the salamander dream.

  He argued with the coffeemaker. Once the green light was on, and he was sure it wouldn’t explode, he allowed himself to look at the pile of marking. Professor Laclos had asked his students to write about the problem of obscurity in Old English literature. Most of the short essays began with a Webster’s definition of obscurity, followed by spliced Wikipedia articles pertaining to various topics. One student had written on Hamlet, firmly believing that Shakespeare was alive and well in the ninth century. He moved that essay to the bottom.

  There comes a time—usually during the second semester of a master’s degree—when all graduate students ask themselves the same question: Why am I doing this? It was a more neurotic version of the poet Rilke’s question: Must I write? If you answered in the affirmative, it meant that you were a writer. But Rilke never asked: Must I write a thesis? The desire to be an academic was poorly understood. Andrew didn’t fully know why he’d chosen to pursue graduate studies. Complicating things just seemed to be what he was good at.

  Carl and Shelby had more obvious connections to academia. Carl was one of those kids who’d started watching the History Channel when he was six years old, entranced by animated reenactments of siege warfare. Shelby’s mother was head of the Cree Languages Department, and she’d practically grown up in the translucent corridors of First Peoples University. Andrew had no such pedigree. For as long as he could remember, his father had managed a used furniture store. His mother lived in various places, none of them nearby. She was an avid reader, as evidenced by the funny, well-written postcards that she sent him. The rest of his family held reasonable jobs, which granted them things that he still regarded as magical: dental benefits, deductible prescriptions, vacation time. They smiled kindly when he described whatever paper he was working on, like you do when someone tells you they want to become a graphic designer.

  He sat down at his kitchen table, separating the essays into piles of ten. They remained sinister, and so he divided them again into piles of five. Mark five, and you can do something fun, like watch a commercial or go to the bathroom.

  When he was first applying to graduate school, he’d asked for reference letters from a number of surprised college professors. They were surprised because he’d barely spoken in class, and most of his essays, while competently written, had been late and off-topic. When he’d asked his favorite professor what the hardest part of her job was, she’d replied, without hesitation: “Marking. It’s like yard work. It never gets easier, and you always have to do it.”

  Everyone had different strategies. Shelby wrote detailed comments that were uniformly encouraging, while Carl liked to scrawl What? or simply no in the margins. Andrew had tried everything—a marking rubric with codes, a form of shorthand, typewritten comments, even colorful stamps (a jumping rabbit for use the active voice)—but in the end, none of these tactics cut down on the labor. His professor had been right. Of course, she’d also taught four classes per semester and still been available during office hours, while he could barely get through the work of forty-five students. College professors had guts.

  He turned on the radio.

  —found stripped to the waist in an overgrown area of the park. Drugs and alcohol were most likely a factor, although police are not releasing any more information at this time. The hiker may have already been disoriented and suffering from exposure when the wild animals discovered him.

  Andrew shook his head. Wascana Park was in the middle of the city. How could a pack of coyotes get this close without being seen? It was like being attacked by wolves in the Cornwall Centre food court. They were supposed to be shy animals. He’d heard of them teaming up to take down a deer, but a full-grown man?

  The phone rang while he was pouring the coffee. Andrew turned off the radio, then hit the speaker button. Shelby’s voice filled the kitchen, singing: “Maaarking paaarty, we’ve got wine and highlighters!”

  “I was just about to have a coffee.”

  “Perfect. Coffee lays the foundation, which you can then sprinkle wine on.”

  “When exactly did we plan this marking party?”

  “It all came together about fifteen minutes ago, when I woke up Carl. Now we’re on our way. He’s not super-awake yet, so he could probably use some coffee as well.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more efficient for you to just mark at a pub?”

  �
��Your place has the best lighting. Be there in a sec.”

  He hung up and surveyed the piles again. Was five pushing it? Bundles of three seemed more humane. Three was a sacred number, after all. The doorbell buzzed. Andrew realized that he still wasn’t wearing pants. He threw on a pair of shorts and went downstairs. Carl appeared first, holding a box of pilsner.

  “She’s got more in the trunk,” he said.

  Still barefoot, Andrew made his way across the unkempt lawn, avoiding the dandelions. Shelby handed him two bags.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Comestibles. We have to feed our minds.”

  “Is there anything here that isn’t a starch?”

  “You’re in no position to critique anyone’s eating habits. Besides, I got you those dried mango slices that you like, even though they creep me out.”

  “Thank you.”

  Carl had already set up camp in the living room. The table was now covered in essays and exam booklets. He had both a beer and a coffee in front of him.

  “That was mine,” Andrew observed, pointing to the mug.

  “Sorry.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s still some left, I think.”

  Andrew bit off a caustic comment. He returned to the kitchen and poured himself what remained, which was about two thirds of a cup. He gathered his essays and walked back into the living room. Shelby had already deployed her marking, next to Carl’s. There was no room left. Andrew exhaled. Then he piled his essays on the nearby chair. The living room was modest in size, and two extra people made it feel snug. He loved them both to death, but there was something about having people over—even great people—that never failed to make him anxious. It seemed like he should be cleaning, or handing out coasters, or something.

  Carl opened up a bag of Funyuns. “Want some?”

  “God, no.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I brought Malbec,” Shelby said, “in case you want to feel like an adult.”

  “I’m older than both of you,” Carl reminded her. “I’m like the hoary-headed sage of this group. You should listen to what I say.”