by J. B. Markes
NECROSWORN:
CHRONICLES OF THE WIZARD-DETECTIVE
J.B. Markes
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Copyright - About the Author
Chapter 1
For weeks I was hidden away in the necromancer's basement. I try not to recall those drawn-out days hunched over that dead beetle on the table, sweating through my frustration. Time and again, I repeated the exact words Gustobald had used so many times during his demonstrations, performed the hand gestures exactly as required. I even consumed the disgusting crawler larva that was the usual base ingredient for the spell. My inflection, my stress-timing, my verbosomatic coordination; it was all perfect—and yet, not. Not even the slightest twitch of a leg. The scarab's spirit was gone for good, and mine was fleeting.
Necromancy was nothing like what the academy masters taught. To the civilized wizards of the world at that time, it was all virgin sacrifices and bargains with demons. For all I knew as a month-long student of the so-called dark arts, it might have been true; if so, I was never called to witness anything half so interesting. For me, it was twelve-hour solo study sessions, punctuated by private instruction from the brightest necromancer of our time, Gustobald Pitch.
Having already attained the rank of apprentice wizard at the academy's manifestation school, and been subsequently dismissed, I was no stranger to late nights and long hours. In most ways, necromancy was a discipline of magic like any other, with many tomes' worth of theory and formulae to be committed to memory before even the simplest spells could be cast.
This understanding did nothing for my wounded pride. In all the ways that mattered, I had been cast down to the lowly rank of novice, and it stung. A humbling experience; any master would say there is value in that. But I didn't have time to spend on life lessons. I was in a race against time—against death itself—and I grew wearier by the week.
The language of necromancy was a challenge all to its own. Necrospeech, they sometimes called it, but I've heard many names over the years: deathwhispering, deadspeak, corpsetongue, among other uninformed, uninspired drivel. That being said, whatever disrespect was shown to this forbidden script, it deserved all that and more; the language spilled and turned with no care for rule or order. It was maddening.
And I was angry in those days—that day in particular. I might have burned that beetle and the whole table with it. I might have unleashed a bolt of lightning and rendered its tiny body into vapor. I might have smashed its body under my fist, or done one of a hundred other things to convince myself I wasn't completely powerless, had Gustobald not chosen that very moment to check on my progress.
"Troubles, Miss Ives?" he asked, clearing the bag of fertilizing powder from the corner of the table and stacking it with the others against the wall. "You really must learn to control your temper."
"I'm in control," I said, my voice raw from my hours-long attempt to harness the power of that cursed speech.
"In control? You're downright irascible! And you shouldn't be down in the basement in such a state. It's not good for the mushroom garden, after all. A few of the more delicate specimens might think you're angry at them and go into hiding."
"That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" he asked. His tone of voice and startled expression disarmed me. I could never tell if he was being serious. When I broke down into reluctant laughter, he leaned in for a close inspection of my would-be patient. "Didn't we talk about this?"
"Yes, Gustobald. But I don't have time and I haven't been a novice in years."
"Ah, but you are a novice now," he replied, stressing his words rhythmically. "First comes understanding, then practice."
"I don't have time," I repeated as I rubbed my tired eyes.
"You're still afraid."
"Of course I am."
"You can't fear it, girl." He pointed at the beetle as if that explained everything. "Look at it."
"I am."
"Then look and see. It's dead. You have to accept it."
"I understand, but—"
"No. No, you don't," he said, tugging his braided beard. "It's dead. Say it."
"It's dead," I repeated.
"All living things must die."
"All living things must die."
"And that's it," he said. "There's nothing more, because until you understand that one truth—truly accept it—you will always be afraid. Fearing death is just another way of saying you're afraid of life."
I knew better than to talk back to Gustobald, no matter how right or wrong he was. He was a master in his field, despite the academy's refusal to acknowledge the fact. Even after all he had done for the magic school in uncovering the conspiracy behind the Archseer's murder, the masters would never accept him. They didn't know him like I did. In the most difficult times, I had to remind myself that Gustobald knew best.
"Take a rest, Miss Ives," he said. "It's important sometimes."
I took one last look at the lonely scarab and then followed the necromancer up the stairs. He stopped on the final step to motion toward the globe of perpetual light hanging from a nearby rope, snuffing it out.
"You really should use darksight while you're down here. The mushrooms."
"I try not to squander my strength any more than I have to," I said. "I have my own delicate condition to worry about."
"Perhaps I'll enchant some spectacles so you can work in the dark," he said with a nod. "But again, if you were studying upstairs where you belonged, you wouldn't need them at all."
We eventually made it to the kitchen, a journey that seemed much longer with the old man's constant commentary on my unruliness. His complaints reminded me of my own time as an apprentice at the Tower of Hands. The novice and initiate wizards had ever been on the lookout for ways to make my days difficult. At this thought, I was shamed enough to suffer Gustobald's grievances in silence.
The dining table had already been set out with tea and egg tarts, a duty that usually fell to me. Gustobald took a seat and motioned for me to do the same. I was eager to get the taste of crawler off my tongue and helped myself without further invitation. I could feel my cat Akasha rubbing against my leg under the table. It was a miracle she had left the treats untouched. I sniffed one of the tarts to make sure it wasn't another one of Gustobald's macabre experiments.
"It's difficult," Gustobald said at last. "Believe me, I know."
"Was it the same for you?" I asked, devouring one of the tarts and trying to remember the last time I ate real food. "How did you learn?"
"It was different," he said. "Harder. I had no teacher."
"Impossible," I said, lowering my voice when he raised an eyebrow. "No one could learn all this on their own."
"We all have our hidden talents," he replied. "Some of us are foolish enough to seek them out."
"I thought you were gifted with a talent for transmutation." I passed a bit of the soft pastry und
er the table to reward Akasha for not disturbing the plate while it was unattended.
"I've told you before. With a notable exception here or there, necromancy is much the same as transmutation. What is life but a continual state of change?"
It was only after I grabbed the last tart from the plate that I realized he wasn't eating. He didn't point out my selfishness, and I hadn't even been counting how many I'd already taken, but I placed the treat back on the dish and went for the teacup instead. I leaned back in my uncomfortable chair and we stared at each other in silence, perhaps both dreading the path of the conversation. It had become a recurring pattern with us; Gustobald was always two steps ahead of me.
"What gave you the idea to leave transmutation?" I asked, hoping this new variation of an old theme might slip by unchallenged. "I mean, how did you know you would be good at necromancy?"
"We never know until we try," he said, reaching out for the last egg tart. He savored it slowly, as though it were the last treat in the world. If I had known he would use it as a shield, I would have eaten it myself. After a minute of munching, he sipped his drink and cleared his throat, but didn't continue.
"What I mean—"
"I know exactly what you mean, girl. And your concentration should be on the future, not the past." At this, he removed a small envelope from his pocket and slid it across the table. At his nod, I unfolded the paper and quickly counted the stack of bills—the paper money used exclusively by the wizards of the Academy Magus in those days.
"There's three hundred crowns here," I said, straightening the papers and making a special effort not to crease them. I had never seen so much gold in one place before. At Gustobald's nod, I looked to the shopping list written on the inside flap of the envelope. Some of the ingredients would be hard to find.
"That represents a good portion of my life savings," he said. "You'll have to pay a visit to Madame Barrows's Goods. Hopefully she'll remember what we did for her last month and cut us a bargain."
"I'm sure she will. I burned down half her shop. She's still not fully restocked."
"Maybe don't remind her of that part," he said with a painful wink. "Find what you can where you can, and stop by the vaults and exchange the leftover for specie. We'll need real coin soon enough."
"Are we going somewhere?" I asked, wondering if the academy had finally turned us away for good.
"In fact, we are." His sly smile was wasted on me, and he wouldn't continue until I shook my head. "I've been summoned to Astar."
"Astar?"
"We have a new client, Miss Ives." He nodded joyfully. "There's been another murder!" He was beaming like a child with a sack full of sweets, and I wondered at the fact he had contained himself for so long. "Word of our deeds has reached the capital, and they are in need of our special brand of justice."
"I can't go to Astar," I said, suddenly terrified at the prospect of losing my tutor. "My studies. I don't have time."
"Nonsense!" It was too late. He heard my words, but missed my meaning. I would see that same look in his eye time and again in days to come. There was fresh blood and he was ready for the hunt; everything else was secondary. "What better place to grow your practical understanding of the craft?"
"Gustobald!" I waved my hand to catch his attention. "We've had a month and I can't even move a bug. How many months do you think I have left?"
He didn't answer and neither did I. We spent the better part of a minute staring down at the half-eaten pastry. The master had spoken; as the apprentice, it was my job to follow. Finally, I tucked the notes back into the envelope and carried it to my satchel for safekeeping. Gustobald didn't leave his chair, just propped his chin on his fist and wandered his own thoughts.
"When do we leave?" I asked, shouldering my bag and threading my wand through the leather straps on my wrist. "It will take me a day or two to gather everything."
"Tomorrow at noon," he said. "We mustn't keep our client waiting. And Miss Ives—" He caught me with my hand on the latch, just before I walked out the door, his voice suddenly somber. "Have faith, and don't forget the tobacco. It's third on the list, but it really should be first."
Chapter 2
It took less time than I expected to run Gustobald's errands. Most of the items were run-of-the-mill components: ink and parchment of sufficient quality to scribe magical scrolls, a couple blank wands to charge whatever spells we would have a need for, rose petals, walnut shells, chips of animal bone, copper rings, dried apricots. Those last were for eating; Gustobald had recently acquired a taste for them.
The more exotic reagents—a rainbow garnet, a swatch of raw spider silk, a small piece of marble carved into the shape of a human finger bone—made up the bulk of the cost. It was more than I would have been willing to pay with my own money. Acquiring them in a timely manner only made things more expensive, but nearly anything could be bought, sold, or commissioned at the magic school for the proper price.
The final item on the list was a small cordierite pendant bound by a simple leather strap, for which Gustobald had placed an order weeks before. While not particularly scintillant, the stone was clear, beautiful, and paid for in advance. I was no expert on gemstones, but it was clearly worth more than Gustobald's entire estate. It would be many months before I learned its true price.
I was finished before morning, so I took a short nap just before sunrise and then invited my best friend Regina to breakfast—Gustobald's treat—at the best eatery the academy had to offer. It would be the last time we saw each other for a while, as Gustobald's business in the capital was open-ended. Truth be told, I wouldn't miss my grueling study schedule one bit, but I would miss the few friends I left behind.
"I still can't get over your hair," Regina said once she finished her meal. She grinned and leaned back in her chair. "Aren't you light-headed?"
"It's not too short, is it?" I asked. "I give myself another month in Gustobald's house before I shave my head completely. It would be cleaner, at least. Don't ask."
"It looks cute anyway," she said, looking down at her pocket and pulling out a tiny box. "Before I forget."
She placed it on the table next to my dirty plate and I flipped the lid to reveal a jadeshell trinket. "It's half a pair of earrings," I said. "Thanks."
"I have the other half, of course. I traded a good amount of my upcoming free time for it, I'll have you know. We can use them to keep in contact."
I placed it to my ear and she did the same. I felt a pinprick on my forehead. She must have felt the link as well, because she winced the same time I did. "It's telepathic," she said. "Just put it on and call my name and it will summon me if I'm in range—or the other way around." You can talk out loud, but you don't have to, she said without moving her lips. "Don't keep it on for too long though. The headaches."
"Thank you," I said, removing the earring and placing it back in its cradle for safekeeping. I felt the mental link break as soon as it was off my ear. "It will be good to have you to keep me company."
"When our schedules match up, at least. I'll be busy. So when are you coming back?"
"Maybe a week. Maybe a month. Who knows? Gustobald won't even say exactly where we're going."
"Did you say goodbye to Harper Lazrus yet?" Regina had that look in her eye again. She had been trying to set us up together ever since she found out about him.
"I haven't spoken to him in a couple weeks." I tapped the box containing Regina's gift, avoiding her teasing grin. "Do me a favor. Let him know next time you see him."
"You should tell him yourself," she said.
"He's busy with his research."
"I really don't get you sometimes. He'd make time for you."
"I'm busy with my study, too," I replied, a little too quickly. "You've no idea how much time it takes. It's not like manifesting."
"Oh, well excuse me." She shook her shoulders haughtily and gave a half-smile. "Some of us just have it easy, I guess."
"I just can't afford any distractions right
now."
"I get it," she said. "Keep looking for your cure. But what's the point in living if you don't take the time to actually live?"
"I'm too tired to actually live, whatever that means. These days I feel it more and more. My strength is leaving me. Sometimes it's all I can do to get out of bed." I realized I'd said too much when Regina's forehead creased. "You know what? Let's change the subject. Do you have any personal problems I could complicate with my unwanted advice?"
"None whatsoever," she said, blinking innocently. "Though I have been pretty busy myself these days managing the fresh recruits. We have two due to take the Trials next month, and another a few months later. They won't be ready. Master Virgil's none too pleased about it. You mean you're physically tired or—"
I shook my head, shrugging her off. "Virgil let me get kicked out. He should have fought for me and he wouldn't be down an apprentice. You can tell him I said that, too."
"Are you kidding? He'd kill me if he knew I was talking to you." She leaned forward, whispering in her most sinister tone. "Consorting with a necromancer."
I wanted to smile, but that joke had run its course weeks ago. Whether I was buying research materials for Gustobald's bizarre experiments, taking a leisurely stroll to refresh my tired mind, or just paying a visit to my best friend, the mood around the academy was steadily changing for me. I had noticed people crossing the street to avoid my path, cutting their conversations short whenever I entered their space. On more than one occasion I had witnessed mancers—former pupils of mine—flexing their wrists to keep their wands close at hand. Whatever the masters of the Tower of Hands were saying about me, it wasn't good.
Miss Ives, come at once. Gustobald's voice invaded my mind. His missives were always the same, regardless of the true urgency of the situation, or more commonly, the lack thereof. Nevertheless, it was getting late, fast approaching the hour of our scheduled departure.
"What's it like?" she asked. "From the inside."
"It's like my first day at the academy, but without the excitement."
"You're so brave. I don't know if I could do it."
