‘Why are you so determined to stay?’ she asked as he helped her up a tall step, his hands warm on her arms.
Smythe’s eyes widened. He flushed and looked away, running a hand through his mess of curls. ‘Well, apart from y — the historical significance of this site, you mean? I’m certain this will come as a surprise but — well, I’m not quite as well regarded at the Grand University as you might expect.’ His sepia skin was splotchy with embarrassment beneath his freckles. ‘They — ah. I’m sorry, this is quite hard to say — they think of me as a peculiarity. A joke. I arrived there as a boy, more intelligent than half the senior — but nevermind that.’
His lips had grown thin, and his arm was rigid beneath Ree’s hand. ‘Suffice it to say that none of them believed me worthy of my rank. I came here to disprove them. And as a necromancer with the power to summon lost souls, I will have more pertinent and direct historical evidence than any who came before me.’ His expression became shadowed. ‘They will have to respect me then.’
Ree thought of Smythe, who was learning the Craft at a ferocious rate, and yet frequently lost track of his sentences and was so hapless as to be easy prey for even Larry. She could see why the other scholars didn’t respect him, but it wasn’t fair on him either way.
‘You must hate it, when Usther calls you an idiot,’ she said. ‘Or — or when I tell you to shut up.’
Smythe didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I’m sure you don’t mean anything by it,’ he murmured.
Ree’s throat tightened. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘What you said — about why you want to stay — that’s just why I want to learn therianthropy.’
Now Smythe did look at her. His lips quirked at one side. ‘You know, I’d thought as much. Actually — I have something for you.’ He stopped to pat himself down, eventually pulling a much-folded sheaf of paper from his pocket.
Ree looked a question at him as she accepted it, but he only said, ‘It’s not really the best time to explain, but — well, if your father doesn’t kill me, I suppose we can take a moment?’
Ree tucked the papers carefully into her robes. There was something about his sudden seriousness and focus that made her shy. ‘I won’t let my father kill you. If we have to run, then we’ll run.’
Smythe pulled a face. ‘Yes, as you’re in the perfect state for that.’ His eyes widened as he realised what he’d said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so —’
Ree squeezed his arm. ‘It’s fine.’
When they finally arrived at the ampitheatre, Usther and Ree’s father were already there, arguing in low voices that caused incoherent anger to echo around the walls. Ree wasn’t entirely sure why there was an ampitheatre in this part of the crypt. She had a theory that one of the bureaucrats buried here had been a patron of the arts and wanted to continue to enjoy them in death. Nonetheless, she appreciated the high, domed ceiling and the rows and rows of stone benches. The stone was cracked and plain but holding up well, and a wooden bridge crossed it where the high ceiling intersected with a passage on the next level. It would have made the perfect town hall, were it not so far from the central mausoleum — but that was also what made it ideal for their purposes.
‘Pa,’ Ree greeted her father warily.
He turned smartly from Usther, dark eyes flicking from Ree to Smythe. ‘He doesn’t look like an acolyte,’ he said quietly.
Usther crossed her arms. ‘He has hidden depths. Very, very well hidden.’
Usther had laid a withered corpse on the stage, no doubt forcing it to march itself there. Its arms were crossed on its chest and its hair was little more than cobweb fuzz. ‘Your subject,’ she said, crooking a finger at it. ‘Maybe 150 years old, and not very spry for it. Go ahead with the ritual, and do try not to make me look bad.’
Smythe looked to Ree’s father, who inclined his head, his expression impassive.
Smythe knelt beside the corpse. He pulled a long knife from his pack and started carving on the corpse’s chest and hands, murmuring incantations. He chalked a spell diagram around the corpse, and dropped his own blood onto it, standing back. ‘Isthet!’ he cried, throwing out his arms.
Magic like smoke threaded with red light snaked from his hands to encircle the corpse, flowing in through its eyes and mouth. Red light pulsed from its chest.
‘Isthet!’ Smythe cried again.
Ree’s hand crept toward her throat. Smythe was cloaked in power, his hair flying, his eyes red. Unnatural shadow played about his features. The scholar she knew was gone, replaced by a necromancer in the throes of a ritual.
She wanted him to succeed. She wanted her father to pardon him. But a small part of her was also afraid of what this would take from him. Of what it had taken from her father, and Usther, and nearly everyone they had known.
Nobody she had ever met was warm the way Smythe was. And she wasn’t thinking of his body temperature.
A featureless figure of red light rose from the corpse’s chest. It gasped: ‘What do you want of me? Please, release me!’
Ree shuddered. This wasn’t a spectre, or even a greywraith made from the impression of a lost soul. This was the lost soul itself, ripped from the afterlife to answer its summons. It was a fate she hoped never to suffer herself.
Smythe looked at her, smiling triumphantly.
At Usther’s signal, Smythe released the soul.
Ree’s father’s staff creaked in his grip. ‘Fine. It will be done.’ He walked to Ree and leaned very close to her ear. ‘Even this upworld fool can learn the Craft,’ he murmured. ‘It’s long past time that you learned it as well.’
He straightened. ‘I would suggest leaving it a day or two, so that word has time to travel.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Ree. She looked at Smythe; his hair was a little duller, his cheeks a little paler, but he was himself again. ‘We have somewhere to be.’
It took them a day to find it, not helped by Ree’s injuries. ‘I don’t see why Andomerys didn’t just heal you properly,’ Usther complained after helping Ree through a cracked wall. ‘Honestly, for such a powerful healer, she’s rather a disappointment.’
‘She said it would be best if it healed naturally, as much as possible,’ Ree said.
Usther snorted. ‘Utter foolishness. Who cares whether something is natural?’
The room was as she’d left it. Ree could see where the adventurer’s bedrolls had scuffed the dust; there was a bloodstain on the wall where she’d been stabbed.
Her blood. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, her mouth suddenly dry, as her eyes found the inevitable.
Larry’s body still lay against the wall. His legs were spread at odd angles, his chin on his chest.
‘Oh,’ Smythe said softly.
For once, Usther had no pert remarks.
They all knelt beside him, laying him out flat on the ground. Nobody said anything as they crossed his arms on his chest.
At length, Smythe said, ‘I suppose … I suppose we should say a few words?’ He cleared his throat. ‘Larry was a jolly chap. I didn’t know him long —’
‘No.’ Ree shook her head. The words were hard to say, her throat suddenly tight. She felt like her lungs were thin, like she couldn’t quite draw in enough air. She looked at Smythe and Usther. ‘We can’t leave him like this.’ She reached for the arrow.
It was crusty with blood and didn’t want to move. ‘Hold his head,’ she said. Usther took his head and Smythe braced his shoulders as Ree gritted her teeth and pulled. The arrow slid slowly free, leaving a round black hole between his eyes.
Ree tossed the arrow aside and wiped her hands on her robes.
‘Better?’ Usther asked, with barely a third of her usual ire.
Ree said nothing. They all stood up, forming a circle around him.
Smythe cleared his throat again, ‘Larry was —’
The corpse lurched upright, mouth gaping.
Ree skittered back, clutching her chest. ‘Morrin’s teeth!’
‘No …’ Usther pointed
at Larry, backing away herself. ‘That shouldn’t be happening. The brain’s been damaged! He can’t — he shouldn’t —’
But even as she spoke, the wound between his eyes sealed.
Larry stumbled to his feet. A red light flicked on behind his eyes, monstrous, glowing in the dark. He turned toward Ree.
Ree’s back hit the wall. ‘Larry?’
What is there to say about Wandering Larry? Surprisingly little is known about him. Though ‘he’ is the oldest known minion in the crypt, none can trace a master for him, or source the magic that animates him. Despite his age, he is of little interest to the denizens. A stupid, undextrous minion of few talents and little power, at first he was more tolerated than welcomed. As far as anyone remembers, he wandered into town one day and has been wandering in and out ever since.
Over the years, as the town has grown, he has become more of a fond figure, like perhaps a town mascot, or a friendly stray dog. He is particularly popular with young children, and has bonded with many a baby over a mutual love of biting.
~from A History of Tombtown by Emberlon the Disloyal
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SECRETS AND SPELLWORK
Larry shambled toward Ree with red-lit eyes and a terrible focus. Ree shrank back against the wall. Her breath came short and sharp as Larry’s mouth yawned. His teeth lengthened into cruel points.
Usther pointed at Larry, shadows swarming down her arm. ‘Unnaveth. Izza Krihoth! Morrin’s teeth!’ The shadows burst across Larry’s chest, then scattered. She dropped her arm, breathing hard. ‘Ree, get away from him!’
Ree’s thoughts tumbled. This was all wrong. A corpse could not be raised without a mostly intact brain. A minion that took an arrow between the eyes was a dead one. Necromancy could preserve; it could protect. It couldn’t heal. And healing didn’t work on the dead.
‘Come — come on now, old chap!’ Smythe tugged ineffectually at Larry’s shoulder.
Ree tried to dodge to one side, but pain flashed through her abdomen and she was slow, so slow. Larry’s arms locked into place on either side of her.
‘Larry!’ she pushed at his chest, but his flesh was hard and cold as iron. He shouldn’t be so strong — he was never this strong —
He clamped his teeth down on her shoulder and Ree screamed. ‘Get off!’ She shoved him and he budged enough for her to get her knees up. She kicked him hard in the chest. He flew back; Ree collapsed.
Ree touched trembling fingers to the fleshy wound in her shoulder. They came away wet with blood.
‘You know, I really think Larry isn’t quite himself,’ said Smythe.
‘What a helpful observation, thank you!’ Ree snapped.
Usther skirted Larry where he lay on the floor. She took hold of Ree’s arm; Smythe took the other. They heaved her to her feet. ‘I think we should shove that arrow back where you found it,’ Usther said darkly.
‘That’ll be difficult to do, considering there’s no wound and he’s somehow incredibly strong.’ Ree shook her head. ‘We need to get back to town.’
Larry was flailing on his back. He tried to get up once, twice, then eventually lurched up into a sitting position. The red in his eyes flickered, then failed. His jaw went slack. His fangs became nubs. He gargled, head lolling to one side.
Ree took two uncertain steps toward him, one hand pressed to the bite he’d inflicted. ‘Larry?’
He kicked his feet as if he was already walking. Ree gently pushed his shoulder; he fell over. ‘Praise Morrin,’ Ree said wonderingly. She looked to Smythe and Usther. ‘I think he’s back to normal.’
‘Yes, but how? This is nonsense! None of this should have happened.’ Usther scowled down at Larry. ‘We can’t even test him. Whatever magic animates him has been impossible to tamper with for years.’ She kicked him; he howled. ‘Oh do shut up! You survived an arrow through your brain, you hideous infant.’
They waited to see if he would retaliate, but he really did seem to be the pathetic minion Ree had grown up with. After a moment, Smythe helped him to his feet. ‘Jolly good to have you back.’
Ree winced as she felt the edges of the wound. ‘I need to see Andomerys. This is probably infected; gods only know what he’s been eating.’
‘Rocks,’ said Smythe.
‘I saw him gnaw his own arm once.’ Usther wrinkled her nose.
‘The point is, we should get back to town.’ Ree looked at Larry. He was as she had ever known him; gangly, loud, barely in control of his own limbs. His eyes rolled independently in his head, as if he was trying to look everywhere at once. She was so relieved to see him. He was family; as much as her parents, as much as the town she’d grown up in. It warmed her, to see him alive again.
She was also just a little bit afraid of him.
‘We can’t tell anyone what happened,’ Ree said, fixing Usther and Smythe with her firmest stare by turn.
‘Sorry, but — why?’
‘Because we want to learn how he did it and use it ourselves,’ Usther said, giving Larry a shrewd look.
Ree rubbed her eyes with her free hand. ‘Because people might not like it.’ She thought of the council wanting to punish outsiders. She thought of the acolytes, hungry to prove themselves. ‘Because someone might try to take him apart to find out how he did it. Swear you won’t tell anyone.’ She paused, then glared at Usther. ‘Promise you won’t experiment on him, either.’
Smythe reached out and shook Ree’s hand with both of his. ‘Of course! Consider it done. Anything for this old boy. And I’m rather good at keeping secrets. I remember when Young Miss Renfield swore me to secrecy over —’
‘Usther?’ Ree ignored the warmth of Smythe’s hands, focusing only on her friend. ‘What do you think?’
Usther pursed her lips. ‘I think the biggest lie you ever told me is that you’re the only person in town who doesn’t keep secrets.’ She bared her teeth. ‘Of course, I never believed you. I’ll keep quiet about Larry.’ She caught Ree’s expression. ‘Fine, I swear I won’t experiment on him or give up his secret. Why must you always be so dramatic?’
That would have to do. She would only keep her oath for as long as it suited her purposes, but there was no need to say it aloud. Ree knew Usther thought it was implied. Betrayal was just the cost of doing business, for a necromancer. Ree ignored the sting in her heart and tried not to take it personally.
Larry bumped into her shoulder, head bobbing on his neck. Ree pat his cheek. ‘All right. Let’s get you home.’
They returned to town, Larry lolloping behind them down the winding passages like a tall, demented puppy. Part of Ree flinched every time Larry lurched toward her, expecting his eyes to flare red and his teeth to grow into fangs, but whatever dark spell had reanimated him, it was buried deep. He was only Larry. And through some miracle, they had him back.
They had to travel through the night, as it was generally agreed that they shouldn’t let Ree’s wound fester. As they approached the town, Smythe began to twitch. ‘Your, um, your father wouldn’t lie about pardoning me, would he?’ he asked Ree.
‘Yes,’ said Usther.
‘... Yes,’ Ree agreed. As Smythe paled, she hurriedly added, ‘But he wasn’t lying. If he didn’t intend to pardon you, he’d have killed you there and then. Pa hates inefficiency.’
Smythe didn’t look much reassured. Ree’s stomach wrenched; she tried to think of something comforting to say. ‘We’re almost there, so you’ll soon see either way.’ She winced. ‘I mean, at least you won’t have to wait.’
Smythe looked faintly green.
Usther hooted. ‘Oh please reassure him more. I want to see if Larry tries to eat his vomit.’
‘Don’t … mention the “V” word.’ Smythe’s voice was strained.
Ree hesitated, then took Smythe’s hand. He stiffened; his eyes flew from their clasped hands to Ree’s face. He looked, if anything, even more ill.
‘We’ll sneak in through the back door of my family’s tombhome,’ she said, as firmly
as she could. Something about Smythe’s expression made her feel short of breath. She carefully withdrew her hand. ‘Nobody will even realise we’re there.’
‘Except your parents,’ he said, but his voice had lost the edge of panic.
‘Except my parents.’
They finally made it back to the central mausoleum. For a moment, they just stood, overlooking the cluster of converted tombhomes and the dusty market square. This place of bleak stone, luscious moss and luminous mushrooms: this was her home. Ree took a moment to draw in a long, stale breath. She always forgot how much she missed it until she was looking at it.
Usther bid them a testy farewell — her temperament was not improved by lack of sleep — and headed toward her own home. Larry ambled after her and they could hear her complaining, ‘No! Go follow Ree, you useless lump!’ accompanied by his happy gargling all the way into the town square.
Ree’s mother was the only one home when Ree snuck Smythe in through the back door. She looked up from the candle circle she’d been sitting in and raised her eyebrows. ‘Bitten?’
Ree nodded and her mother tsked. ‘I thought I taught you better. Come here: let me see to it. There’s no need to trouble Andomerys.’
While Ree’s mother bathed Ree’s neck in the warm glow of her magic, Smythe hovered in the doorway. She looked at him; his mouth opened, then closed, then opened. He seemed to be building up to something. At length, he said, ‘Hello, Arthura. We haven’t met while I’ve been conscious. Uh — hello! You must forgive me, but — could I stay here for the night? I know it’s rather forward of me, but I’d prefer not to go back out given that — well — given recent events.’
Ree winced as her mother’s magic knitted her skin back together again. Her magic always left more of a sting than Andomerys’, as if it bruised even as it healed.
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