“Is he dead?” Kell raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet. But the way he’s been coughing, he can’t last much longer. Keeping everyone up, way he hacks and croaks. I’m surprised one of the other lodgers hasn’t put him out of his misery. Don’t imagine anyone got much sleep.”
“It’s against Guild rules to take people before they’re dead,” Kell replied pleasantly. “You wouldn’t believe how often I get asked.”
The cook sighed. “Ah, well. Worth a try. Come back tomorrow. He’ll probably be dead then.” With that, she shut the door.
Kell squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. Polly’s gone. Did someone suspect what she’d done to that bastard that tried to hurt her? Was she afraid of the guards? His chest hurt at the thought of Polly being arrested. Much as he hated to have her gone, it would be worse if she had been taken to the dungeons. I want her to be safe. But I also wanted her to be here, with me. With a heavy sigh, he headed off to continue his rounds.
Kell had a few more stops to make, which included going to see Widgem at The Muddy Goat. He considered not going, since it wouldn’t do for someone to get curious about the bodies in the cart and have a look. Before he left the relative safety of the Dragon’s rear yard, Kell snuck a peek at the contraband corpse from the brothel. The quicklime had begun to eat through his face, and the body’s unfortunate journey down the brothel steps had been partially facedown. It would take a lot of imagination to recognize the Chancellor in his present state.
Satisfied, Kell headed off. The spate of recent deaths had provided a bumper crop; with luck—and if Widgem was in a good mood— the amulets he would buy from him to sell on would more than make up for the few coins he had spent.
He turned the corner toward the Goat and saw guards on either side of the street, stopping everyone, questioning them before they were allowed to move on. For a moment, Kell froze. If I turn around, I’ll draw attention. There’s nothing to do but go on.
He raised his head and joined the queue. Really glad I didn’t wait to use the quicklime until I got home.
“What’s in the cart?” the guard barked as Kell came up for inspection.
“Bodies,” Kell replied. “I’m an undertaker.” The guard walked around to the back and moved to lift the tarp. “You might not want to do that. The one on top died of fever.” He shook his head. “Horrible, it was. Bleedin’ from the nose and ears, eyes turned yellow and popping out, near ready to explode.” He dropped his voice. “I had to handle him extra careful, ’cause it’s very catching.”
The guard drew back as if the cart were on fire. “What’s your business here?”
“Making my rounds,” Kell said jovially. “People die every day, and we give them their last ride.” He glanced up at the tavern’s sign, then gave the guard a conspiratorial look. “If I were you, I’d avoid the mushroom soup. Last time it was on the menu, we had three new ‘customers’—not saying that the soup was to blame, you understand.”
The guard looked stricken. “I ate the mushroom soup for lunch.”
Kell gave him a patently fake smile. “Oh, then. Not to worry. That was a few candlemarks ago, right?” He peered at the guard, who had gone a bit green around the gills. “If you’re still standing, it must have been one of their good batches.”
“How do I know?” The guard’s gruffness was gone, and he sounded worried.
“Bad mushrooms are trouble,” Kell sighed. “Starts with farting, then the shits. Next you puke fit to bring your innards up. And when there’s naught left to puke, the blood comes.” He offered the guard a half-hearted reassuring look. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”
The guard waved Kell on, no longer worried about anything in the back of his wagon.
It was the clear that the guard had told his companions about the corpses and the mushrooms, because they all gave Kell’s cart plenty of room when he parked behind The Muddy Goat. Kell forced down his turmoil over Polly’s disappearance and headed inside. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a tankard of ale, scanning the room.
“If you’re wantin’ Widgem, he’s in the back,” the barkeeper said. “Been busy. Everyone who isn’t staying the night wants to get home early. Folks are nervous.”
Kell took a sip of the ale. “Yeah, so I’ve seen. What news have you heard?” The barkeeper gave him a look, and Kell shrugged. “It’s not like my customers keep me up on the gossip.”
The barkeeper poured drinks for several of the other patrons and handed over a bowl of watery soup to one of the men. “News? Monsters, fever, the usual,” he finally said. “Oh, and a couple of guards were too dumb to stay out of a ramshackle house and got squashed when the roof fell in, so you’ve got some saying it must be witches.” He snorted and shook his head. “Things aren’t built right, they fall down when they shake. Ain’t no magic involved.”
“Anything else?”
“I hear the hunters have been out in force.”
“Oh?”
“About a week ago, there was a big commotion a few blocks from here. ’Course, everyone does the sensible thing and pulls the shutters and stays inside. But I heard tell that there were men, dressed all in black, out battling these creatures, right?” He leaned closer. “Hunters. Now I didn’t see it, I wasn’t there. But some who were say that when they looked out a second time, all the monsters were dead and the men in black were nowhere to be seen.”
Kell took another sip and raised an eyebrow. “Makes a good story. And what about the guards?”
The barkeeper muttered an oath. “Can’t leave well enough alone, the guards can’t. Instead of being happy someone else did their job for them, they’ve been asking lots of questions.”
“Are they getting any answers?”
“Not that I’ve heard. The only thing folks like less than the monsters are the guards.”
Kell left an extra coin for the information, and headed for the back. Widgem was holding court, perched on the battered chair like a corpulent, threadbare prince. He looked up, saw Kell and dismissed his hangers-on.
“Master Kell!” Widgem’s features were florid, and he mopped his brow with a stained kerchief.
“What did you bring me?” Kell asked, settling into a chair across from him.
Widgem withdrew his pouch of treasures. “I think you’ll like what I’ve got today.” He spilled the pouch out onto the table and watched as Kell picked over the contents.
“Very nice,” Kell muttered. “Working with a better sort of witch, are you?”
“Keep your voice down!” Widgem looked over his shoulder nervously. “It’s not wise to say some things aloud.”
Kell picked out half a dozen amulets and set them aside from the rest. “What do you want for these?”
Widgem named a figure, and Kell rolled his eyes and halved it. Widgem countered, and Kell settled in the middle.
“All right!” Widgem grunted. “Highway robbery, that’s what it is! You’ll have me in the poorhouse at this rate.”
“Ravenwood doesn’t have a poorhouse,” Kell replied, leaning back in his chair.
Kell counted out the coins as Widgem watched to ensure none were counterfeit. Kell held one or two of the charms up to the light, looking them over closely.
“I’m wounded you think I would cheat you,” Widgem said, putting a hand to his heart.
Kell gave him a sideways look. “You would if you thought you could get away with it.”
Widgem chuckled, baring worn, tobacco-stained teeth. “Yer too smart, Kell Valmonde. I can’t get nothing over on you.”
“Humph. The moment I start believing that is the moment you strip me naked and sell me for labor to a cargo ship,” Kell replied, only half in jest.
Widgem gathered the coins into his voluminous, ragged velvet bag with fingers the size of sausages. “Have to say, I’m a bit disappointed, lad. Thought by now someone in these parts would have tried to pawn a Potters’ Guild ring. You haven’t seen one around, have you?”
K
ell went cold, but he kept his face neutral. “Why would I?”
“Didn’t you hear? The potter’s son went missing about a week ago. No one’s seen or heard from his since. Figured he’s dead—and the dead in these parts all come to you.”
“Only if someone pays their way,” Kell replied.
Widgem slapped his hand against the table and roared with laughter, ending in a wheeze. “You’re a businessman, Kell Valmonde, sure as I am. I like that about you. Always about the silver.”
“If we stay as busy as we have been, I’ll need more amulets from you in a week. People like having a bit of luck in their pocket,” Kell said, standing. “Good doing business with you.”
“Come back anytime. Always in the mood to do a deal,” Widgem promised. Kell grimaced. Trading with Widgem left him feeling in need of a bath.
Good thing we tossed that ring of Allery’s in the sewer, Kell thought. Widgem could probably get more by turning me in to the guards than he’ll make off what I buy from him in a year.
He returned to the cart. A glance told him no one had disturbed the contents. With a sigh, he grabbed the poles and headed out.
The late afternoon shadows grew long. Although he refused to think about Polly running away, her absence—and the possibility that she was in danger—darkened his mood. Kell’s stomach rumbled, but he had one more stop to make. He turned off his normal route, heading toward the large white turrets and spires of the Avenue of Temples.
The temples were old, each one a work of art, and the avenue was arranged from the greatest to the least, with the minor deities and half-forgotten godlings at the very end. White paving stones covered the street itself, so that at midday the glare made a person avert his gaze. Most of the temples were roofed and walled in the same stone, creating a tableau of dazzling, other-worldly beauty.
At the head of the street was the biggest temple of all, to Oj and Ren, the Forever Father and the Eternal Mother, the creators of everything and the most powerful gods of the pantheon. Dozens of temples lined the Avenue, and shrines to lesser deities dotted the sacred groves on the hills beyond the wall.
A large marble spindle marked the temple of Vashte, the god of weavers. The temple of Bon, god of blacksmiths, had a huge granite anvil in its outer court. Kell dragged the wagon past the enormous stone potter’s wheel outside the temple of Qel, and the larger-thanlife terra cotta horses standing eternal watch outside the sacred courts of Jorr, god of farriers.
Every Guild was represented, and the opulence of the carvings on each edifice testified to the Guild Masters’ wealth and pride, sparing no expense to woo the gods’ favor, and to outshine the other Guilds. Kell maintained the small household shrine to the Valmonde family spirits, since neither Corran nor Rigan were especially devout. It was he who noted the feasts and fasts, the vigils and prayers, and made sure that, if the gods were real, the Valmondes did not run afoul of them. We have enough trouble as it is.
The temples at the far end of the Avenue were worn with age, their marble stained with time. These were the oldest gods, the fearsome spirits, and the entities long-worshipped and greatly dreaded. They were the stuff of myth and legend, the horrors that came in dreams, ethereal beauty with a bloody edge. Ancient names: Ardevan, Eshtamon, Balledec, Coldurran.
The Guilds demanded tribute for the new gods, the patron deities of the trades; upstarts, all of them. The people of Ravenwood did as their masters bid them, taking their offerings on the feast days to the Guild gods’ temples, making their prayers when custom demanded. But late at night, when illness struck or misfortune overtook them, those worshippers brought their true prayers and gifts to the Elder Gods, and it was these ancient beings that they honored in the shrines in their homes and the desperate petitions in their hearts.
Halfway down the Avenue, Kell saw his destination. Doharmu, god of the Undertakers’ Guild, Lord of the Golden Shores, welcomed his worshipers to a temple made of black basalt. Of all the Guild gods, only Doharmu, god of Death, was also one of the Elder Gods. His temple stood out like a thundercloud among the blindingly white structures surrounding it. Here at least, Kell knew no one would object to his cart of corpses, nor was there any danger of the bodies being interfered with. It had been a while since he had visited the temple, and the sight of the huge, black edifice sent a chill down his spine. Unlike the other temples, which often boasted elaborately carved and gold-inlaid doors, Doharmu’s home had no doors at all, just a shadowed portal like the mouth of the grave.
Kell forced himself to climb the steps. The other temples were covered with bas relief murals praising their gods and depicting their triumphs. The outer walls of the Doharmuran were smooth and plain. A vast obsidian skull, tall as a man, sat in the wide outer court. Its empty gaze followed Kell as he reached the top of the stairs and readied himself to enter.
Doharmu required no sacrifice, because everyone came to him in the end. He asked for no pageants, because the dead have no rank. The god of undertakers had need of few priests, because all those born into his Guild and its magic were his priests and priestesses, in the course of their work.
Kell steeled himself to walk into the gloom. Torches in sconces lit the way, though they did little to dispel the shadows. Inside, a parade of carved skeletons adorned each wall. All walks of life, from king to beggar, had their place, as did all of the Guild trades and the professions. Kell could pick out the chandler and cobbler, fishmonger and boatwright, tailor and cooper, and many more. Some of the skeletons were stooped with age, and some were crawling infants—all came to Doharmu.
Kell swallowed hard, shivering in the temple’s chill. Cold as the grave. He clasped his hands to keep them from shaking, and made his way through the empty chamber. If the god’s acolytes were present, they did not make themselves known. Banks of candles glowed along the walls, yet the ceiling vaults and side chapels seemed to swallow their light. Doharmu’s temple was a very pretty crypt.
Two rows of columns made from artfully stacked human bones flanked him as he proceeded. Atop each sat a carving of a skull, each turned slightly away from the others.
A large onyx statue of a hooded figure stood by the altar. Beneath the statue’s carved robes, Kell could make out the strong muscles of a warrior in his prime, a huntsman victorious. Death could be a cheat and a thief, but he was never a weakling.
Kell trembled as he reached the statue. A small tray filled with gravel sat on the dais at its feet, ready to accept the only offering of interest to the temple’s god. Kell knelt before the tray and pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt. With one swift cut, he drew the blade shallowly across his wrist.
“Dark Father,” Kell said. “I ask nothing for myself. But please, in your mercy—and you can be merciful, Lord of Death and God of Rebirth—please protect my brothers—and Polly.” He paused. This was completely out of his experience, and he made it up as he went, flourishes and all. He hoped Doharmu liked flowery language. Priests seemed to. Maybe he prefers things plain-spoken. After all, he’s Death.
Kell cleared his throat. “Polly ran away, and I’m afraid someone wanted to hurt her. And my brothers are in danger. I don’t know what to do. Please. I will pay any price. Just keep Polly safe, and protect Corran and Rigan. They’re all I’ve got.”
Warm blood dripped onto the gravel. He opened his eyes, and watched the drops fall. The blood vanished into the stones, like rain on thirsty ground. A wind stirred past him, making the candles flicker wildly, howling through the skulls atop each column.
Your prayer has been heard. The voice sounded in Kell’s mind, making him jump. He looked down at his arm. The wound was healed.
I will grant your petition. Count the cost.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WITH KELL’S HELP, Corran and Rigan prepared the day’s dead with just enough time to call on the priests of the relevant Guilds, finishing the job by suppertime.
Darkness had fallen by the time they reached the cemetery. Corran and Rigan lit torches, casting the gra
veyard in eerie shadows.
“Five dead. If we get them all done and down before curfew, it’ll be some kind of personal record,” Corran grumbled.
Rigan looked toward the priest blessing the last body. “Digging five graves in the time we’ve got left is going to hurt come tomorrow, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
“How did we end up with an extra priest?” Corran asked. The steady rhythm of their shovels striking ground, dirt filling the blades and sliding free, was a familiar, comforting cadence.
“The suicide’s mother paid extra for him,” Rigan replied, wiping his forearm across his face to clear the sweat from his eyes. “The woman who killed herself when her husband drowned their baby. Her mother wanted vengeance. I guess the Old Ones are better at that than the Guild gods.”
“That’s because the Elder Gods just might be real,” Corran said, continuing to dig. “The new gods are just stories the Guilds made up to make themselves feel important. No one actually believes in the Guild gods, except the Guild Masters.” He paused. “Except for Doharmu, of course, but then he’s an Elder God too.”
Rigan shrugged. “I guess if you’re desperate for help, you call in the gods that might be on your side—which wouldn’t be the Guild gods. You want revenge, you go to Eshtamon.”
Eshtamon’s priest wore a simple gray robe. He laid the dead woman’s body in the open grave and circled the hole twice, once in each direction. A candle in a bowl burned at the head of the grave, and at the foot lay a tray of tarnished valuables, paid in tribute to the god.
“Eshtamon, lord of the crossroad and the gallows, hear me!” The priest slowly circled the grave and stopped by the candle. “God of the lost and the wronged, attend my prayer.”
He dropped powdered incense onto the candle, changing the color of the flame. The sharp scent of myrrh wafted on the breeze. “Bring vengeance on the one who caused this woman’s death. Punish him, lord of thorns, with your iron teeth and sharp claws. Rend his flesh and break his bones. Heap lamentations on his head until he can bear no more, and destroy his soul.”
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