The Resurrectionist of Caligo

by Wendy Trimboli

  “Is that what you’ve managed to put together?” Mr Murray tucked his chin behind the fur collar of his coat and advanced against the wind. “Dr Lundfrigg is the one working for us.”

  “That makes no sense. What does a lawyer need with magic-inducing mushrooms?”

  “This will be your final opportunity,” said Mr Murray, almost upon him now. The silver implement Roger had mistaken for a pen was in fact a thin blade. “Now tell me where you hid the stock. Thief!”

  “Ada, run!” Roger had lost track of the girl in the dark. With effort, he raised his fists. The cumbersome blocks of wood that were his feet stumbled in the mud. Mr Murray’s blade thrust toward him and Roger could only throw himself out of the way. He tried to knock the lawyer’s legs out from under him, but the man was too nimble. Mr Murray lunged again, his stiletto aimed for Roger’s eye.

  “Tell me where!”

  The lawyer stopped short. He arched his back and howled. Ada had hurled herself at him from behind, pulling a strip of the lace shroud tight around his throat.

  “You feral bitch!” Mr Murray screamed. He tried to shake her off, but she pulled tighter, cutting off his voice. Roger pushed himself to his hands and knees and scrabbled forward, but just as he caught one of Mr Murray’s shoes, the lawyer flung Ada to the ground. She landed with a thud and struggled to her feet, but he pulled her to him by the hair and held the blade to her throat.

  “If you don’t talk now, Weathersby, this wild beast never will again, either.”

  “But I–”

  “Threatening a child.” Dorinda’s voice echoed among the stones. “Have you no shame?”

  Mr Murray turned in a circle, still holding Ada, searching for the source of the voice. “Who’s there? Show yourself at once,” he demanded of the dark.

  Roger took advantage of this distraction to haul himself onto unsteady feet. He could sense Dorinda’s shadow orbiting the circle of lamplight. Her movements made no sound.

  “Unfortunately for us both, I’m charged with returning this man alive.” Her voice now seemed to come from the opposite side as before.

  “I assure you, ma’am,” said Mr Murray, a quaver in his voice, “this is no business you wish to be involved in.”

  A chuckle answered him, and the lawyer shielded his eyes as if it might help him see in the dark.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Bruce Isles. I’d have caught up with you eventually.” Dorinda used a name Roger had never heard. “You’ve only saved me some trouble. Two birds with one stone, as they say.” She sounded gleeful, her breezy voice playing tricks with their ears.

  “How do you know that name?” Mr Murray’s voice tripped up an octave.

  “It may have taken this long, but we’ve ferreted you out at last. Did you think your affair of the heart with Lady Esther would stay hidden forever? Did you think you would stay hidden?” Dorinda’s laugh cut like a lancet. “But many buried secrets have started coming into the light. Sons are often disappointing, no?”

  Mr Murray’s face blanched as though it had endured a good boiling. The deliberation he’d shown earlier had gone, and the stiletto fell from his hands. Not to waste an opportunity, Roger caught Ada’s eye.

  She nodded, and he shoved Mr Murray aside. His grip on Ada’s hair loosened. The girl ducked free, then vanished into the dark.

  Mr Murray’s eyes widened. “How much? How much does the queen know?”

  “Her royal majesty knows everything. The years-long affair. Your three not-so-royal bastards. And their not-so-magical father.”

  Their petty squabble didn’t interest Roger. “Who cares about bastards when you’ve been murdering women? Did you strangle them, or Nail, or did Dr Lundfrigg do it himself?”

  “What’s this?” Dorinda’s shadowed form appeared behind the lawyer. She touched her hat, and Roger caught the flash of something pretty and red in her hand – a hatpin with a carnelian bead. “Have you been killing again?” she asked, alerting Mr Murray too late of her presence. She embraced him from behind. One arm wrapped around his waist, and the other pressed her hatpin to his jugular.

  Roger’s heart pounded in his chest at this sudden reversal. “I’ll ask again. What does a lawyer need with magic-inducing mushrooms?”

  Desperation cracked Mr Murray’s cool demeanor. “Why should the queen care if some tarts die? Yes, I strangled them, all but one. Nail tried to handle that chocolate shop girl alone and flubbed it. My sons need magic, and Dr Lundfrigg offered his services in exchange for access to the royal family. Things were looking up until you got your corpse-thieving hands involved.”

  Dorinda eyed him with scorn. “If Lady Esther had wanted to keep her triplet of bastards, she should have ensured their father had the right blood in his veins, instead of bedding a common knave like you.”

  Before Mr Murray could respond, she stabbed him through the neck, again and again, until blood fountained from him in thin streams, too many for Roger to count. Mr Murray crumpled to the ground and writhed facedown in the muck.

  Blood dripped from Dorinda’s dagger-like hatpin. Roger stumbled to the wounded man and rolled him on his back. He clamped his hands tight around Mr Murray’s starched cravat to staunch the flow, but the man spluttered and gurgled, drowning in his own blood. Before long Mr Murray would be decaying flesh and bone, like the stiffs resting all around them. Roger kept his hands pressed to the lawyer’s neck long after he’d gurgled his last.

  Dorinda wiped her hatpin with a black lace kerchief. “Stop your whimpering.” She looked down at Roger. “You’re as theatrical as your owner.”

  “You just killed a man.” Roger grit his teeth. “Killed him as easy as pinning your hat.”

  Dorinda cocked her head. “A man? That?” She slid the hatpin with its shiny red bead back into her hat. “Take a closer look.” She tapped her own neck, and then pointed to Mr Murray’s blood-soaked cravat.

  Roger peeled the material back. There among the puncture wounds he found a familiar Stigma – a Muir rose topped with a coronet and outlined in shining gold pigment.

  “You can’t murder a condemned man.” Dorinda adjusted her riding gloves. “A lesson you would do well to remember.”

  Roger stared at his bloody hands.

  “And I thought you’d be pleased to see the man who sent you to prison, dead before your eyes.” Dorinda smiled. “Roger, you disappoint yet again.” She threw the reins over her horse’s head and mounted. “Well, I have revived you. My duty is completed. Good day.”

  “Wait,” Roger called out, as she kicked her horse and trotted down the grassy slope. “How am I supposed to get to the palace?” He shambled after her, still unbalanced from his ordeal, then stopped, too out of breath to continue.

  “Not my problem,” she shouted back. “Your princess patron should take better care next time.”

  Roger felt a tug on his hand and looked down.

  “I’ve got a shelling saved from the butcher’s,” said Ada, slipping a coin into his palm. “You could hire a nag from Ol’ Brindleburn on Goatmonger Street. Come on, I’ll hold you so you don’t fall. Then after, you’ll owe me…” she counted on her fingers “…a dozen hot cross buns and a ’gazy pie.”

  36

  Roger’s horse was foaming and out of breath when they reached the top of Broadbriar Street and the brightly lit Malmouth Palace. As he approached the side gate used by servants and delivery carts, the guards shouted at him to halt and lowered their bayonets. Roger unraveled his cravat, spat on it, and wiped the mud from his Straybound Stigma. It was enough to get inside, but unless he wanted every household attendant between him and the princess calling the guards to check his credentials, he’d need to find a way to blend in.

  He dismounted at the couriers’ stables and headed for the main palace building. Music hit his ear in spurts, and glistening coaches flashed in the lamplight of the ballroom’s entrance. The Royal Heritage Ball had been the talk of the town for weeks. Large events often required the head steward to hire
temporary staff, so an unfamiliar face would not be noticed, assuming he looked the part. Fortunately, he’d been a palace footman once upon a time, and he knew his way around.

  He shed most of his clothes and leapt into the horse trough, scrubbing himself with a currycomb until one of the grooms chased him off – politely enough, since he mistook Roger for a drunkard who’d wandered out of the ball. Next, he climbed over a hedge and through an unlatched window into the head steward’s office. Roger left his soaked trousers and shirt hanging by the steward’s banked fireplace and dressed himself in the best-fitting livery he could find.

  The stiff new fabric of the red livery tailcoat and knee-breeches chafed his skin. With his tattoos covered, his damp hair slicked back, and his chin still passably smooth, he presented well enough. By keeping his chin tucked to his chest and his eyes cast downward, he hoped to hide his old bruises. He made his way to the large servants’ hall located directly below the ballroom where a contingent of junior footmen sat at a long table, frantically shining hundreds of crystal flutes. All around them maids and hallboys bustled about with napkins, silverware, winter roses, and greased rags.

  Roger slid right into the bustle as if he belonged there, setting flutes onto silver trays. Playing footman would get him inside the grand ballroom quickly and clear a path to the princess. No one paid much attention to the servants during these grand events. He lined up with the other footmen and accepted a tray of sparkling wine. Hushed whispers informed him the queen was about to make her second big announcement of the evening, and there would be a celebratory toast. When the head butler dropped his hand, they were to circulate the ballroom.

  A peppery rose scent bubbled from the silver-rimmed flutes, and Roger followed the footman in front of him. They breezed into the ballroom like red and gold confetti. He stood stiffly at the edge of the dance floor as the crowd hushed and waited for the signal. A horn blared, drawing the crowd’s attention to the queen on the dais. As she began to speak, Roger searched for Sibet among the gilded frocks.

  “On so joyous an evening, we wish to convey the greatest of tidings. Many years ago, our youngest son, Prince Henry, and his dearest wife Lady Brigitte, gave birth to a baby boy while abroad. Tragedy befell them during their passage across the Green Sea from Salancia to Caligo, and the baby was tossed overboard during a storm that nearly sunk their ship. Unwilling to burden our nation with their grief, they mourned in private. Now, it gives us the greatest joy to announce their son, thought lost, has been found.”

  The crowd gasped as if an airless bell jar had been placed over the ballroom. Roger couldn’t stomach more royal secrets. He skirted the edge of the dance floor, scanning the dancers for a woman in silver. Only the royals wore that color in winter. Finding Sibet should be simple enough.

  “Washed ashore at Fillsbirth, and raised in ignorance of his true parentage, he chose to serve his country at an early age, returning to the sea as a midshipman. His blood is now confirmed by Archbishop Tittlebury to be of the divine Muir line. It pleases us to present our grandson, Prince Harrod.”

  Harrod… Roger glanced at the dais. There stood his brother, as solemn and motionless as the necropolis queen. A silver sash accented his uniform, along with a fur-trimmed cape and enough silver braiding to rig a sail. Sweat glistened on his brow, and he looked ready to retch.

  Harrod, a royal prince washed ashore? What utter bollocks. If he had to be royal, then he must be a royal bastard. They shared the same mother, of that he was certain. Harrod might be Prince Henry’s son, but he didn’t belong to Lady Brigitte. Still, the idea of Sibet and Harrod being related made Roger’s insides churn. She’d always been quick to take Harrod’s side, and now he knew why. He ought to be angry with her for keeping this secret from him, but his head kept making excuses on her behalf.

  Harrod bowed his head to the audience. Excitement gripped the crowd, as if the queen squeezed them in her fists. A lady swooned. Men of all stations whooped. Then, as one, the entire assembled crowd bowed to their prince, all except Roger who stood rigid until a fellow footman elbowed him in the ribs.

  If the royals wanted Harrod, they could have him. Roger only cared about finding Sibet.

  He circulated through the crowd, offering ball-goers sparkling wine to toast the newly-anointed prince. His last glass was snatched up by a man with a shapely mustache and flushed cheeks, wearing a dandy red uniform to match.

  The crowd raised their flutes to the queen and her newly rediscovered grandson.

  “To the prince!” they cried in one voice.

  After the toast, Harrod descended the steps behind the queen, and a crowd queued to formally greet him. A whole line of toffs bowing to his brother! Roger couldn’t spot Sibet among them. He might as well be searching for a silver lancet in a pile of lockpicks.

  “It’s quite amusing, no?” A Khalishkan dignitary in a striking white uniform cuffed Roger’s arm.

  “Just another day in Caligo,” said Roger, then clamped his mouth shut. He added hastily, “Sir.” Giving opinions to guests was a massive breach of protocol, and the last thing he wanted was to draw unwanted attention.

  The chamber orchestra held a long tuning note, and the crowd shifted to allow a better view of the dancers. Roger risked a glance over his shoulder.

  “Are you looking for someone in particular?” asked the foreign gentleman in his rich accent. Perhaps Khalishkans weren’t as stuck-up as the average Myrcnian. Or maybe the man hadn’t realized Roger was a servant.

  Roger knew enough of upper crust gentlemen not to be tricked into thinking they cared to hear him speak. “I’m only a footman, sir. If you was looking for a partner, I’m a terrible dancer. Please ask someone else.” He bowed deeply, hoping the Khalishkan might leave him alone.

  “You are droll, aren’t you, Mr Weathersby?”

  “I try.” Roger’s mouth went dry at the sound of his name. He studied the man’s face. It had been too dark in the stairwell to see his assailant properly, yet here was the man who had held a sword to his neck. At the time he’d assumed Sibylla had acquired a foreign bodyguard. This man was a toff through and through.

  The Khalishkan pointed to the far end of the dance floor. “I’m afraid the only partner I fancy is her. At least we have one thing in common.”

  Roger followed the direction of the man’s pointed finger, and his heart thumped in his chest. There she was at last! Sibet stood with her back half-turned, consulting a fan-shaped dance card. Her white-silver gown reflected every glint of light in the room. He’d finally found her.

  As couples paired up for the next dance, Sibylla linked elbows with a man in an absinthe-green tailcoat and violet cravat. Dr Lundfrigg. A surge in Roger’s blood made him sway. That man – that human cesspit who murdered women in unspeakable ways – snaked his arm around Sibet’s waist like an eager ponce.

  “What are you doing? Your tray is empty.” A sneering, freckle-faced footman jostled Roger’s shoulder.

  Roger didn’t give a damn about his tray. Across the floor, the royal physician spun Sibet in a sickly swirl of white skirts. His mouth went dry. She needed to know with whom she was dancing. Now.

  Roger dodged left, but the overbearing Khalishkan had swiveled nimbly into his path. “A polite gentleman doesn’t disrupt a lady’s dance card,” he persisted, ever the pleasantest of blowhards. “I’d hoped you might tell me a bit more about the princess, what with you being a great favorite of hers for so long…”

  By the Lady’s nethers, no! Fuming inwardly, Roger ducked his head. By now a few bystanders had taken notice and whispered to one another behind their hands. He pivoted about-face to see the freckled footman now stood beside the palace steward and gesticulated at Roger’s empty tray. He couldn’t go that way, either. He spun back around, but the Khalishkan gentleman hadn’t budged.

  Bugger the lot of them. With one mad push, he knocked the Khalishkan off-balance. Free at last, he dashed into the crowd. First, he hurried toward the dance floor, but a handful of guar
ds and footmen advanced to intercept him. Roger backtracked, veering for the empty dais instead. He had to separate Sibet from Dr Lundfrigg. An idea struck him, and he dug in his pocket for the mushroom he’d kept to show her.

  If he couldn’t get to the princess, then he’d bring the princess to him.

  This crowd of toffs was about to see something they’d never seen before – a lowborn man performing “divine” magic. He gripped the silver tray like some mythic shield. It was metal, just like the locks on the crypt door. The queen would be forced to acknowledge Dr Lundfrigg’s crimes or let the foundations of her authority crumble. And if Dorinda took a hatpin to his neck? Then he’d die knowing he’d avenged Ada and her mother. Tried to, anyway.

  37

  Sibylla cursed under her breath as Roger ascended the dais with his tray. She knew that look on his face better than anyone: brave and bold and stupid. She spun behind Dr Lundfrigg, using the waltz’s partner exchange to make her escape. Lifting the front of her ballgown, she set off in Roger’s direction. He’d already shoved an emperor, and now he intended to get himself shot.

  Having reached the top of the dais, the suicidal idiot held up the shining silver tray and began shouting.

  “Sibylla! Fellow Myrcnians! Listen to me. That Lundfrigg chap there, Sir Finch to you, has faked royal magic and hoodwinked you all.” He cut a dashing figure in his footman’s livery, at least.

  All conversation died away, though the orchestra played on in the background. The entire assembly had their eyes turned toward this raving footman who was sure to be shot, beaten, and sacked, though perhaps not in that order.

  Roger’s arm wavered. Sibylla, standing close now, just behind Lady Esther, could see the silver tray beneath his hands blacken like dark gravy spilling across its surface. She didn’t know what he’d intended, but he seemed to be waiting for something much more dramatic. Who could see tarnish from thirty feet away? If it were iron, perhaps, iron crumbled, but silver… Silver tarnished.