Chapter Sixteen

AFTER LADY Death departed, Jory seemed hesitant to stand close to me, perhaps because I’d shoved him so hard or because some of Death’s reek clung to me. But he watched me closely.

“Let’s finish this,” I said to Nywol.

“Very well. I’m disappointed, though. I’d hoped to collect you. Well, there’s still a chance, I suppose. If the guards catch you, I can bribe someone to bring me your body. Whatever’s left of it, at least.”

“Finish this,” I repeated.

Smiling faintly, Nywol nodded. He fetched a small earthenware bowl, which he handed to Jory. “You may go behind that curtain if you’d like,” said Nywol in a parody of courtesy.

Jory worked his jaw for a moment before stalking away. I caught a glimpse of a small dark alcove before he let the curtain fall, and then all I could see were his boots in the gap below the fabric.

That left Nywol and me alone, more or less, and although he appeared cheery, it was not a comfortable companionship for me. “Why do you do this?” I asked, waving my hands vaguely.

“Arguably, your endeavors are no more savory. Why do you do them?”

“Once somebody’s dead, I leave them be.” I spied the bag with Lord Uren’s head and winced. “Usually. And I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Nor do I. My origins are nearly as humble as yours. But I discovered I had some small skill with magics, and I cultivated those skills. Much as you practiced with knives.”

“Fine. But why the dark? There are plenty of wizards in the city. Most of them are rich.”

“Yes, but we’ve already established that money doesn’t interest me.”

“What does?” I tried not to let my gaze stray to the curtain, but I couldn’t help but wonder what—or who—Jory was thinking of.

“Power, of course. Not little power. I don’t care to have authority over men and women, telling them when and where to work. So petty. I want more.” He huffed. “Honestly, I’d love to have authority over the gods, but that’s never been achieved by anyone and the risks are too great. So I’ve chosen the next best thing. Right now, I am Lady Death’s partner in a small way. Someday I hope to be her master.”

“Why?”

“Because the man who masters death rules all.”

Gods and goddesses. I hoped fervently that if my mind ever got that rotted, someone would lop off my head.

Speaking of which…. “Why don’t you deal with this while we’re waiting?” I toed the head.

“In good time.”

We were silent after that, Nywol smiling faintly while I scowled. Some time passed before Jory emerged with the bowl and a frown. He set the bowl on the table near Nywol and then stood back with his arms crossed.

“Satisfied?” Jory asked.

“Quite. Now all that remains is the blood.”

I started to pull out my knife, but Nywol held up a hand. “Wait.” He made a low, odd whistle.

The thing that shambled into the room a few seconds later was no longer alive. At some point in the past—I had no idea how long ago—it had been a handsome young man. Now its skin was gray, its eyes clouded, and its expression blank. It was naked, and tattooed symbols and designs adorned much of its body. When it stopped just inside the doorway, I saw that it held a shard of black glass. Obsidian, I assumed, although I’d never before seen the fabulously expensive stone.

“Give that to the taller one,” Nywol ordered.

The creature shuffled closer. It didn’t smell of death, which surprised me, but I recoiled when a beetle poked its head out of the corner of the thing’s mouth before disappearing inside again. When the wretch held out its hand, I saw that the obsidian was embedded in the flesh, although there was no blood.

Nywol gestured. “Take it.”

“Is this what you’d have done to me if Lady Death killed me?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe I’d have been more creative.”

My skin crawled, but I pulled the shard from the creature’s palm and considered where to cut. I already had a number of slices; perhaps it would be best to reopen one of them.

Nywol walked over with another bowl, this one larger than the one he’d given Jory. “In here, please. You can both use the same bowl. I don’t care if your blood mingles.”

While Nywol and Jory watched, I pulled up a sleeve and unwrapped the bandage around my right wrist. Nywol regarded my wound with interest but didn’t say anything as I cut through Jory’s careful stitches. Fresh blood flowed quite quickly into the bowl that Nywol held beneath my arm.

“That’s enough!” Jory said after a few moments.

Nywol shrugged; I rewrapped the bandage and turned to Jory. “Are you all right with this?”

“Go ahead.” He gave me his arm, but instead of slicing his wrist to match mine, I cut rather shallowly into the meat below his elbow. It hurt, I’m sure, but if he had to fight again, an injury there would hamper him less. He stayed still until the bleeding slowed and I ordered Nywol to take the bowl away. I tore a strip from the hem of my tunic and tied it around the cut.

“The head,” I said to Nywol.

“Of course.” After setting the bowl aside and taking the obsidian from me, he stabbed the shard deeply into the creature’s chest. Jory gasped and I winced, but the creature didn’t react at all.

“Go,” Nywol ordered. The thing walked slowly away, dragging its feet. It paused right before it reached the doorway, though, and gods help me, it gave me a brief, desperate glance—the only sign of true thought or feeling it had shown. Then it was gone.

I reached for one of my knives, but Jory stopped me with his hand. “Don’t,” he mouthed.

He was right. I took a deep breath and sent a silent prayer to Bolitho. On behalf of the dead thing instead of myself, for once. I like to think Bolitho listened.

Happily oblivious, Nywol picked up the bag and took it to a table. He pulled the head out of the bag, unwound the layers of cloth, and held up the head by its hair. Lord Uren looked much the worse for having been decapitated and carried around all day. Dried blood flaked from the jagged edge of his neck, and his eyes were only partially closed. But Nywol petted and stroked the head much as a producemonger might inspect an especially interesting squash.

“It’s funny,” Nywol said. “Once a man dies, it doesn’t matter anymore whether he was a beggar Lowler or the king himself. Different journeys, same destination.”

It did matter, of course. The king received a funeral pyre with hundreds of mourners, while the beggar was tossed into the river. The king left his family grieving but financially set; the beggar left his family—if he had any—even more destitute than before.

“Make him talk,” I said.

“It’s an easy enchantment, especially with one so freshly dead. But it’s limited. It lasts only about an hour, and it can be used only once. Do you want to invoke it now? Or were you going to take the head somewhere and have it bear witness to your innocence?”

Damn. If Lord Uren spoke now, my curiosity might be satisfied, but the problems that Jory and I had would remain severe. Nywol was no good as a witness. He’d probably never agree to state my case before anyone influential, and if he did agree, I didn’t trust him not to betray me. And in any case, a necromancer’s word was worth almost nothing.

That meant I had to turn somewhere else. I wasn’t going to get a Finch involved, not after what happened to the last. My only remaining option was terrible. But it was all I had.

“I want the head to speak later.”

“Very well.” Still holding the head, Nywol closed his eyes and muttered something unintelligible. The air crackled as in a lightning storm, and Lord Uren’s features clenched into what looked like pain. His eyes flew open, although they didn’t seem focused on anything in particular.

Nywol began rewrapping the head.

“That’s it?” Jory demanded.

“I could have done some flashes and smoke to make it look impressive, but yes, that’s it. When you’re ready to talk to him, simply call his name three times. And remember, he can’t lie, but you’ll find him obtuse.” He stuffed the head back into the bag, which he handed to Jory.

Although Nywol had clearly done something to the head, I had no way to know whether he’d kept his promise. I could call Lord Uren’s name as instructed and nothing might happen, and then Jory and I would be dead. I decided to hope that Nywol’s pride in his work was enough to keep him honest in that regard.

Jory shouldered the bag, and together we walked to the doorway.

“We’ll need guidance out of here,” I said.

“You’ll get it. Good luck, gentlemen. Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

We didn’t thank him.

The red mark waited for us in the corridor and led us faithfully up toward the surface. We passed a few more ghosts along the way, and one apparently living human woman, but none of them bothered us. Because Tewl Loor had more exits than entrances, our journey was much shorter, and soon we stood inside one of the conical stones. The usual scraping sound preceded its opening, and after we stepped outside, the stone closed up.

Even though we were still in Tewl Loor, strictly speaking, it was glorious to see the open sky and to breathe fresh air.

“Where are we going now?” Jory asked.

“Back to the city.”

“And then?”

“We hide in the Low until morning.” I thought a moment. “Then we send a message to someone. We meet him… in the wraiths’ warehouse, I think. We make Lord Uren speak. The rest is out of our hands.”

“Who is this someone?” Jory asked, sharp-eyed.

“A captain in the city guard.”

Jory’s eyebrows flew up. “You’re going to deliver us straight into the guards’ hands?”

“He… might be inclined to listen. To believe. And if he does, he can keep us safe. He would be an excellent witness before a judge.”

“And who is this compassionate guard?”

I grimaced. “Captain Myghal Tren. The closest I’ve ever come to having a lover.”

JORY PEPPERED me with questions as we walked back to the city. But I was tired and I hurt and I’d had enough of everything, so I didn’t answer, and after a while he lapsed into silence. Our bootsteps seemed unnaturally loud.

When we got within sight of the city wall, I found myself stopping.

“What is it?” Jory asked, instantly on edge.

“Nothing.” It was strange to see Tangye from the outside. It made my home seem alien and reminded me that the city had existed for centuries before my birth—and would continue, indifferent, after I died. I discerned the beauty in the high stone wall and in the towering ramparts festooned with spiritlights, but I could also smell the foul reek of sewage and see the pall of smoke hanging over the city.

Tangye is dedicated to the goddess Flyra, whose temple graces the highest spot in the city. Really, though, Lady Death should be the one worshipped within those marble halls, the one whose grace is implored during coronations and important festivals. Tangye is hers.

We kept to the riverbank as we passed through the Eastern Gate. With darkness to hide us and almost nobody else on the path, we encountered no problems.

“Where are we going?” Jory asked.

I’d been considering our few options since we left Tewl Loor. I’d even weighed the possibility of going to the warehouse, but I didn’t have strength to fight the wraiths. Gods, the thought of my mediocre bed and rat-infested apartment had never held so much appeal! “We’re staying down by the river.”

He didn’t ask what I meant by that. Maybe he knew.

We walked past the Royal Bridge to Meryasek, which was considerably out of our way but safer, due to fewer people. After crossing the bridge, we doubled back along the south bank.

The scavengers live in rotting huts near the river’s edge. Although the shacks are on stilts, they flood after heavy rains. The smell is terrible around their homes, and the air is never entirely clear of smoke. Scavengers die young, either felled by disease or drowned in the river that previously sustained them. Yet they continue scavenging, one generation after another.

Some people claim that scavengers have river water in their veins instead of blood. But I’d fought one once when I was young, and he’d bled as red as I did.

I chose a shack near the inland edge, and as Jory and I stood ankle-deep in sludge, I called out. “Ho! Ryty and Ver!”

After a brief pause, the door squealed open and someone peered down at us, their features indistinct in the dark. “Who?” a woman demanded.

I lowered my voice. “Daveth Blyd and a friend.”

I worried there would be no response, but a moment later a rope ladder dropped down. Climbing it strained every wound in my body, but I scrambled up quickly with Jory right behind.

The owners of the shack waited for us just inside, Ryty short and thin and Ver tall and round, both women displaying skeptical frowns. They were married to each other but had some kind of complicated intermittent relationship with another scavenger woman who lived a few minutes away.

Ryty pulled up the ladder, closed the door, and drew the bolt. Then we stared at one another in the light of a few flickering lanterns.

“What do you want?” Ver finally asked.

“Sanctuary. Just for tonight.”

I didn’t know whether they were aware of the price on our heads. If so, the money would surely have appealed to them. But scavengers can’t read and don’t interact much with outsiders, and they have even less love for the city guard than the rest of the Lowlers do.

Ryty and Ver exchanged a long look before Ver turned to me again. “What can you pay?”

I made a rough guess of our remaining coins, knowing it wasn’t enough. “About four remi.”

They rasped hearty laughs. “That’s not enough,” said Ryty.

“But it’s all we have.”

Another wordless exchange between them, followed by Ver’s nod. “Your boots.”

“What?”

“Give us your boots. Then you can stay until morning.”

“You can have mine,” Jory offered after I hesitated, but they shook their heads in unison.

“His are better,” Ryty said. Which was true enough.

With an aggrieved sigh, I bent to undo my laces.