The Resurrectionist of Caligo

by Wendy Trimboli

  A pair of arms, disembodied by the closed curtains, opened a window, and a gush of warm air and conversation spilled out. Roger edged toward the window until he stood just below it. The air was warmer still here and soon the other mutes huddled beside him, their teeth chattering and vapor spouting from the nose-gaps in their masks.

  Up in the parlor, an older woman’s husky voice moved near the window, continuing some conversation from before.

  “She’s the ninth to die, they say. Just like the ones before her.” Her voice was almost too soft for Roger to catch. “The daily papers don’t report it for fear of scandalizing visitors, what with that Cabbage King of Khalishka on his way. Can’t say I blame them.”

  Nine women? Roger stretched his neck upward to hear the rest of it.

  “One expects such ends for women of the slums, but not actresses and respectable shopkeepers. I admit, reading gruesome broadsheet headlines is a diversion of mine – don’t tell my dear Tobias…” The speaker moved away from the window, and Roger cursed his luck.

  To keep his mind off the cold, he pestered the other mutes for information on the Greyanchor Strangler. No one agreed on who – or what – the fiend was: a soldier gone mad in the border wars, a sexual deviant, a demon. One account they did agree on: all his victims had taken ill first.

  Then another knot of conversation moved to the window, and a familiar name caught Roger off guard.

  “I’m not superstitious, but I’m taking my daughters to Lady Sibylla’s chapel for a blessing of protection. Can’t be too careful in times like these.”

  Roger scoffed at the idea that a trip to Sibet’s chapel would keep illness – or this Greyanchor Strangler – at bay. He’d once been closer to her than anyone, and still his mother had fallen to consumption.

  “Whatever will the Emperor of Khalishka say when he visits our fair city?” asked a lush young man. “He’ll think us a regular backwater, no more capable of maintaining public safety in our streets than that trollvillage in Housewench of the Haunted Hearth. By the by, did you happen to get that invitation from your brother-in-law’s second cousin?”

  “No luck, dear. Not even Dame Angeline has made the guest list. With all the fuss over this emperor, the Royal Heritage Ball has become the ticket of the season.”

  “I say, that is a shock considering those two darling princes are at her salon nearly as often as the lady herself…”

  A stiff elbow to the ribs interrupted Roger’s eavesdropping. An amused mute pointed to the front door where Nail argued futilely with the butler.

  “Up your arse with solemn duties, sir! We demand hot toddies an’ punch, sir!”

  “The venerable Mr Murray suggests you jump up and down to keep warm, as that is good enough for others of your class.” The butler slammed the door in Nail’s face.

  “They can’t expect mutes to jump up and down,” fumed Nail. “We’d look regular asses.”

  Roger clapped an arm around Nail. “Maybe one of us already does.”

  “My, my,” interrupted the silky voice of a woman used to projecting without deigning to something so common as shouting. She advanced from the main street. “I believe there is a scene in The Whipping Mistress of Whipperton where a mute, failing to silence himself during the prince consort’s funeral procession, has his tongue summarily sliced from his mouth.”

  Roger and Nail glanced at one another. Behind them, the other mutes shuffled into their mourning poses. This woman alone, had arrived unaccompanied. A simple square of gauze veil hung from her plain black hat. Shards of scarlet trim adorned the black bodice that peeked from under her fur-trimmed cloak. Her half-mask, too, was feathered with black and red plumes.

  Nail bowed extravagantly, then launched into his repertoire of silent sobs. Meanwhile Roger turned his face to the side. He’d been told he had a strong chin and looked best in profile.

  “The pair of you would have made wonderful clowns at the Highbarrow Public Hall,” said the woman as she stalked past. Navigating the front steps, skirts clutched high, her buttoned boot caught a patch of ice. Her hands flew up and she gave a girlish shriek. Roger threw his staff to the ground and lunged for the foot of the steps, arms outstretched. Nail, running up from the side, slammed into him. They crashed in a heap on the path.

  The woman managed to pitch herself forward on her hands instead of tumbling fatally backward. She pressed herself into a sitting position on the top step, brushing ice and gravel from her gloves.

  “I survived a three-story fall during the balcony scene of Sirens in Flight, my dear.” The woman rose to her feet unaided. “Men say I’m not easily broken.” Without further delay, she disappeared inside.

  By the time the massive hearse drawn by four plumed black horses arrived, Roger’s feet had become wooden pegs. As he assembled with his fellow mutes in the street for the torchlight funeral procession, the red-and-black veiled woman emerged from the house to take the place of honor beside the hearse’s driver.

  Nail elbowed Roger in the ribs. “Now, if you’d managed to get a kiss from Dame Angeline herself, maybe I’d give you them mortsafe keys after all.”

  Roger nearly set the crape staff alight with his torch. “That were the Dame Angeline?” The woman’s name had been a fixture of their conversation all evening, but he hadn’t guessed she was one of the mourners.

  “It were. You’ve never been to the theater, have you? Her Whipping Mistress is the one to see.”

  By Nail’s account, Dame Angeline ran an elite salon for men with expensive tastes – the sort of establishment that served flutes of sparkling wine, where ladies in ruffled undergarments peeled grapes and frolicked about scattering rose petals. Roger suspected he’d suffer more than a stiff kick to his nether parts if he dared place a finger on the salon’s stained-glass doors.

  All along the funeral route passersby joined them, it being bad luck to cross paths with a hearse. The procession arrived before sundown on the north ridge of Greyanchor hill. Lady Margalotte would find rest among the immodest stones and pillars of the upper middle class. Six of the soberest mutes, Roger included, lowered the coffin into a deep grave, then helped shovel it over while the guests wiped their eyes and headed home.

  The mutes were each given a few winkles and told they’d get the rest when they turned in their afflictions. Assuming the role of undertaker, Nail pulled a tarpaulin off a cart to reveal a coffin-sized iron cage – the mortsafe as promised – and directed a group of workmen as to its installation. Roger lingered nearby, just close enough to glimpse the locks. To resurrect Margalotte, he’d have to simultaneously open two locks on either end of the cage, each likely requiring a different key. Difficult, but not impossible…

  “Getting a good look, are we, Mr Weathersby? I can only imagine what fiendish fancies run through your mind,” said Mr Murray in a low, menacing voice. He’d snuck up from behind and now clamped a hand on Roger’s shoulder. “Besides a mortsafe, Mr Grausam has supplied a pair of armed watchmen to guard the dearly departed. I’m afraid this one will have to remain where she is.”

  “Sir.” Roger ducked his head. “I was just on my way home.” He might pry the locks, but guards would not be so easily manipulated. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. So much for his planned autopsy of Margalotte and the satisfying weight of Dr Eldridge’s shells in his pocket.

  He could try again later. Corpses didn’t rot away in a single night, and watchmen might get drunk. Besides, Roger had other engagements. He’d promised Ada to check in on her mother, and with the sun setting, she’d have left the laundry by now.

  Roger hurried toward the arched lychgate. The caretaker closed its wrought iron doors at dusk to everyone except undertakers, and he didn’t relish the idea of scaling the wall without his rope while lugging this hideous crape staff, too expensive to abandon.

  Outside the necropolis gate, he spotted Ada. She must have hidden in shadow, for she appeared suddenly on the path as if out of nowhere, still clad in her shapeless laundress smock.<
br />
  “Ghost.”

  She darted up and kicked his shin. “You’re late, sack-’em-up man.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  Ada eyed him skeptically, so Roger produced the payment from his mute job.

  “Tell you what. You take these winkles and get yourself a stargazy pie down at the Fox & Weasel. Know where that is?” She nodded and snatched the coins from his hand as quick as any pickpocket. “Once I’ve popped back to my room to lose this bleeding staff and fetch my surgical instruments, I’ll find you at the pub, and you’ll show me to your ma. Is it a plan?”

  “You better not be late again.” Ada pocketed the coins. “Or else I’ll boil your clothes into lye mush.”

  8

  It would be another two days before the royal stagecoach arrived to take Sibylla to Caligo. After a vicious overnight cold snap, fireplaces burned in every room. The air smelled of cinders, and a hot haze now blanketed the hall. As Lieutenant Calloway escorted her to her morning concertina lesson, sweat soaked the lace of Sibylla’s collar. If she’d been born with her Aunt Esther’s ability to blow water globes, she’d have doused the flames by now.

  “It’s an outrage.” The lieutenant had been sulking about one thing or another since he learned of his imminent shift from warden protector to ordinary cavalryman. “I’ve word of a stir up in the barracks. We’re to prepare for an absolute horde of visiting foreigners and their gruesome warlord. My tailor’s written to say he’s fallen behind on monogramming my silk cravats. Not that I care. Why should anyone care to make themselves presentable for that nasty beast?”

  “You mean the Emperor of Khalishka,” Sibylla corrected. “As I recall, you took part in a few border skirmishes. Did you happen to glimpse the emperor among his men? He’s never been on a diplomatic tour, so his visage is still a mystery to those of us outside the military.” She’d often wondered if the most powerful man on the continent did indeed look like a “warlord” as the lieutenant suggested.

  Lieutenant Calloway pretended to stroke an imaginary waistlength beard, then grimaced. “Oh, I saw him. His face is as gnarled as a withered old root, and he smells of sour cabbage and horse sweat.

  Nevermind that he keeps his mistresses’ teeth in a belt around his belly.”

  As inhospitable as the lieutenant presented its emperor, the nation of Khalishka could be a powerful ally. Currently, no Myrcnian embassy existed there. Sibylla inked a winged horse – the symbol of the Khalishkan Empire – to gallop between specks of dust caught in the afternoon light. No embassy meant no ambassador. She wondered how difficult it would be to convince the emperor to take on a foreign diplomat. She’d been concocting plausible harbors for her bastard halfbrother ever since her visit with Dorinda.

  He could board a merchant ship and disappear on a year-long sail of the Andorna Seas, but she could not. Nor could she write to remote villages without drawing attention. Sibylla knew she was selfish, wishing to hide her brother somewhere she’d be able to send letters and royal packages. Yet she didn’t know how else to live. She was fortunate to see her parents two or three times a year – less since she’d been banished to Helmscliff. In truth, her brother was the only family member who made her feel of consequence, and she couldn’t even acknowledge him. At least, on occasion, she might visit an embassy.

  Lost in her head, she had forgotten Lieutenant Calloway rattling on beside her until he leaned close enough that his mustache tickled her neck. Startled, she fell against a foxhunt tapestry, whereupon the lieutenant reached out to steady her.

  Sibylla avoided his assistance altogether by adjusting the numerous folds of her skirt. “This dress you recommended is too many layers of silk, satin, and wool. If I’m not tripping, I’m waddling.”

  Unfortunately, the lieutenant remained oblivious to her pointed commentary on his choice of garments for her, and shoved a book wrapped in brown paper in her direction.

  Curious, she tugged at the string, but before she could peel back the wrapping, he declared, “It’s a first edition of the preeminent field guide on the collection and preservation of seaweed, and it’s yours. It won’t be sold in Caligo for another five months, but my family knows the publisher personally.”

  Not once in her life had she cared a whit about seaweed. She could muster a mild excitement over the sea, but she preferred the docks where vendors sold fresh oysters and men played dice games for money.

  “This is a very fine book,” she said after an uncomfortable stretch of silence.

  His eyes brimmed with pleasure as he tenderly grasped her wrists. She expected her veins to ripple with bluish light the way they once had when a certain roguish kitchen boy used to tug her hand and guide her down to the tidal mudflats along the Mudtyne. Lieutenant Calloway’s touch didn’t elicit even a glimmer. How disappointing that the lieutenant’s amiable face didn’t stir her heart.

  Sibylla left him standing in the hall with the seaweed guide in hand while she slipped into the music room for her concertina lesson. As the door shut behind her, a cold shiver prickled down her neck. Instead of Lady Wayfeather at her music stand, Dorinda stood at the window, sharp as glass.

  The queen’s Straybound pulled the curtains closed, and turned to Sibylla with a mirthless smile. “Shall we continue our conversation, your highness?”

  Sibylla didn’t answer at first – the silence of the room was heavy and dangerous. How foolish she’d been to drop her guard without confirming that Dorinda had indeed left Helmscliff empty-handed. Sibylla took a seat to appear comfortable with the impromptu second meeting, though her face heated with worry. Finally, she asked, “How many times must it be said? I have no brother.”

  Dorinda produced an envelope with eerily familiar script. For a moment, Sibylla wished it was her illicit missive to Roger, but instead recognized the express postmark. She’d arranged for a letter to be sent to her father, Prince Henry, after her encounter with Dorinda, alerting him to the queen’s renewed interest in bastards.

  “We already know about him,” said Dorinda coolly. “There’s no reason to hide what’s been uncovered. Her majesty merely wishes to preserve his safety and set him up with a respectable title for propriety’s sake.”

  Sibylla smoothed her skirt to the side. She and her father had always used coded language when discussing her half-brother. If Dorinda thought she could bluff her way to the truth, she’d be disappointed. “I have nothing to say.”

  Dorinda approached Sibylla and in one swift motion tore the letter in half. She let the two halves fall to the ground. “Amnesty. The crown will grant your half-brother a lifelong reprieve.”

  A raspy laugh escaped Sibylla’s lips. “I know what happens to royal bastards in this country. If they’re lucky, they’re offered poison, and if not, it’s a long and nasty trip to the bottom of the bastards’ well in St Harailt’s.”

  Sibylla couldn’t count the times she’d sat at dinner while the queen, after several goblets of wine, extolled the virtues of abstinence and the dangers of wanton lust. No bastard born during her reign had lived past two days. As far as she knew.

  “What a spiteful princess. Her royal majesty is offering your brother a blessed drop of her mercy, and you spit upon her hand.”

  Sibylla didn’t believe a word of it. Dorinda was the queen’s Straybound, and murder dwelt within her bones. If the queen truly intended to offer Sibylla’s half-brother mercy, then she would not have sent her weapon.

  She made to stand, but Dorinda forced her down. Her fingers dug into the frilly layers of Sibylla’s dress until Sibylla could feel Dorinda’s sharp nails through her thick puffed sleeve. She had no intention of letting Dorinda best her. After all, a Straybound was no match for a princess with magic. Flexing her right hand, she flung a cloud of ink into the air between them. The inkblot swelled outward to coat the front half of Dorinda’s white blouse black. Rivulets dripped down her buttoned chest.

  Dorinda jumped back. “How dare you!” She thrust her arm through the dispersing ink cloud
to yank Sibylla by the wrist. “See what happens if you don’t take her majesty up on this offer.”

  Sibylla raised her other hand to the bridge of Dorinda’s nose. Black ink flowed from beneath her fingernails as though poured from an inkwell, stretching into a blindfold across Dorinda’s face. Dorinda scarcely shut her eyes in time to avoid injury.

  Ink dripped from Sibylla’s fingers as she escaped into the hall, spreading into a black pool on the tile floor outside the music room. Let Dorinda give chase and smack her head against the slick ground. Sibylla straightened; she’d done the right thing. There were other ways to win over the queen. She wouldn’t bargain her brother to gain the Crown’s approval.

  But just how long would it be before the queen, through Dorinda, used more than carrots to find Prince Henry’s bastard son? Sibylla hated Straybound for this very reason, their single-minded devotion to achieving the will of their owners. For now, with her brother in Caligo and herself in Helmscliff, she could only remain silent for him. However, once she returned to the capital, she intended to play a good game. Not only would she protect her brother, but she’d also prove to the queen once and for all that she could accomplish the impossible: prevent her majesty from having her way.

  9

  Roger followed Ada along sinuous avenues woven through some of Caligo’s worst slums. Oddly, the most destitute neighborhoods often backed up to fashionable streets, separated by a single row of houses. The ancient city of Caligo resisted urban renewal with the steadfastness of a small child facing a washtub. Locals knew where they belonged, and ventured into more-or-less advantaged areas at their own peril.

  Off one well-lit boulevard, Ada turned into an alley so narrow and dark Roger would have missed it had he been traveling alone.

  “This here’s Will-o’-the-Wisp Lane.”