She had been here before, thirty five years ago, when the body of the last king was laid to rest. She had been young then, only twenty two years old, and she still remembered many details. Susanna of Navre, sister of Eleanor’s husband to be and William VII’s queen, with a bouquet of black roses, following the bier with halting steps, her head bowed. The bouquet falling from her grip as they reached the last stair. The funeral cortege piling into one another as Susanna stopped and kneeled to pick up the bouquet. Old Edgar, the ancient court jester, falling from the edge of the stairs as others continued forward, oblivious to the grieving queen’s actions. Many courtiers had laughed when they heard or saw him fall, and others had grumbled of disrespectful antics, assuming it was done in jest. Only later did they realise Edgar had broken his neck. But most of all she remembered the tears she had not shed. The tears she could not show, for fear they might shame the queen. For why should she grieve more than the queen. She had shed many tears at other times, when no courtier could see, and only the years had lessened the pain. Augustyn had been there also, a young ambitious noble. He had been close to the new king, Richard, William VII’s uncle. And it was Richard who had finally made Augustyn duke. Payment for services rendered, Eleanor had suspected, and the king’s continuing favour in the years since then had only confirmed the belief.
Eleanor and the sailors struck out towards the centre of the stone circle, and soon the step pyramid there loomed above them, the Pyramid of Apotheosis. A stairway extended up its side. They climbed to the apex, and entered an opening in the stone. Inside was the tomb of the first king and his family. Under the first king’s tomb was another stairway. They descended again. It went down, then changed into a passage that led out, then reached another stairway, which descended to the next level. At each level the stairway ended and a passage extended in an inward square shaped spiral, past tombs of kings and their families, reaching a central tomb, beneath which another stairway extended down, another passage out. Eventually they reached a level where the pattern changed, no longer constrained by the shape of the pyramid. From here the labyrinth of tombs extended further horizontally, and the shape of the tunnels was a bewildering maze, though at each turning only one choice was possible. You could not be lost here, despite the many turnings. Either you climbed up, toward the first king, or descended, towards the last. The rooms within the bounds of the pyramid might have been fashioned when the pyramid was built, but beneath the floor of the Crypt of Kings the rooms were only dug with each succeeding king, large enough that his whole family, except the heir, might accompany him to the realm of the gods, to whose number he now belonged, or perhaps merely to the underworld.
They reached the end of the tunnel, where a final tomb extended from the side. This was the tomb of the present king, Richard IV, in which the bodies of his children and grandchildren who had already died were laid to rest. The children of Arthur and Katherine would eventually be moved to a new tomb, which would be dug after Arthur was anointed king.
She retraced her steps. Here was the tomb of William VII. She commanded the bodyguards to wait outside and entered. Over the sarcophagus of the king was a relief sculpture. The likeness was as he had been in life, as if he were sleeping. With the flicker of Eleanor’s lantern it seemed almost mobile, as if he stirred. She ran her hand over the stone cheek. It had none of the warmth his cheek had had in life. She leaned forward. His lips were painted, but already the paint had faded. She kissed them.
She rested her warm cheek against the stone cold cheek and whispered in unhearing stone ears, “It has been too long, my love. Do you remember the days and the nights when we hid in a canopied boat while the royal barge drew the courtiers’ eyes away? The midwinter lanterns floating on the King’s Lake, your lake, and the fireworks bursting above, so much light above and below calling back the sun? The sweet words of love you whispered to me in the darkness and the warmth of your bed when Susanna visited her brother? The sorcery you secretly taught me? You were powerful and the priests thought you dangerous, or so they said. A king whose power dared to match the elder gods. It was only a man who brought you down though. Fingers were pointed at the temples. But it wasn’t the priests who murdered you. Don’t curse me for this alliance between my house and his, my love. I know his guilt. I have never forgiven him. And I never will.”
She straightened up. Only then did she notice the footsteps in the dust around the sarcophagus. Someone had recently walked here. And there was a smell, acrid, of chemicals, such as you might encounter in an apothecary’s shop or an alchemist’s lab, mingled with a hint of rotting flesh.
“Men,” she called to the sailors and they came in. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Remove the lid?”
“Your Grace?”
She pointed at the sarcophagus. The men backed toward the door. “I want no part of necromancy,” said one. The other shook his head in agreement.
“Don’t be fools. I don’t seek to raise the dead. I want to make sure the tomb hasn’t been robbed.”
They kept backing away. She narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t do this I’ll turn you both into toads and feed you to snakes.”
At that they stopped backing away, but only came forward with slow reluctant steps. They heaved at the lid of the sarcophagus. “It’s no use, Your Grace,” said one, breathing heavily and leaning on the lid.
“Are the men of Navre weak as well as cowardly?”
“At that they redoubled their efforts, and soon the lid moved. The grinding of stone against stone and grunting of exertion sounded loudly in the silence of this deathly place. When the lid was far enough back she stopped them and raised her lantern over the gap. Within lay a ghastly sight. The royal robes were tattered by time, and still a circlet crown rested on his brow. A king of corpses; its face of withered, leathery skin, preserved by arcane embalming arts; its empty eye sockets glowing in the lamplight, its teeth grinning horribly. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. The grave had not been defiled. The body had not been disturbed. “Rest in peace, William,” she said, and thought, “my love,” and indicated the men should slide the lid back.
Chapter 52: Strange Creature: Thedra
As the dowager duchess and her bodyguards left, two strange eyes watched from the darkness behind a small sarcophagus. When it was sure they had gone it lit with a flint and tinder the lamp it had put out when it heard them approach through the tunnels. As the tinder glowed a large head was revealed, and eyes that extended from the head on stalks, like a snail’s, only with larger eyeballs. As the tinder lit the lamp wick and the lamp lit the room its whole form was revealed. The head, like the feet and hands, were man sized, but attached to a neck and torso, which like the legs and arms were small enough to be a child’s.
It had come, not through the door of the great tower on the lake, but by subterranean paths, to reach the foot of the pyramid. It had followed its master’s instructions and come to his tomb. It had not disturbed its master’s corpse. That was, without the right preparation, only a husk.
The creature patiently waited hours to be sure the humans would be far away, for they might be alerted by what was to follow. When it was sure they must be beyond the pyramid and even the tower that housed it the creature scuttled over to the sarcophagus, its breath wheezing and voice whining. It wore the clothes of a small child, but they were dirty, grimy with soil, and fouler things. Its tunic was open at the front, revealing a misshapen chest, in which the sternum protruded through translucent skin, beneath which its heart could be seen beating. And over that heart, which pumped green blood, an amulet lay, which now glowed a sickly yellow, as if approving of his work.
The creature took a hammer from its pack, and struck the sarcophagus, close to the ground. The sound of hollowness resounded. It struck again, and the thin layer of slate cracked. Once again the hammer struck. The slate shattered. The creature pulled aside the pieces of slate.
Inside were the jars. These were what he needed. The dead king’s organs were
in those jars, removed before he had been embalmed. The creature had prepared Phisphul’s organs in the laboratory. Now it carefully combined each compound it had manufactured from the organs of the necromancer Phisphul in the necessary order.
The amulet glowed brighter. The creature’s vocal organs were painfully twisted, uttering strange words that it could not have uttered alone, in many voices that yet were only one. They surged and mingled in a chilling disharmony that might have tortured human ears, but their power was undeniable. The air began to stir, adding yet other voices to those many, flowing from the maze of the Crypt of Kings into this room, flowing about the creature and the jars and the sarcophagus. The light was twisted by the unnatural wind into faces that leered from the shadows then collapsed back into darkness. Alone, the small creature could not complete the rites, but its master had many greater servants, including among the dead. Through the amulet’s power its master called them and bound their wills to his own. They howled about the creature and the jars and the sarcophagus.
Chapter 53: Alex: Thedra
The sky was dark with clouds and behind them the moon was new; a perfect night for thieves. The sentry-thief was positioned to watch Ilsa’s Inn and the House of Delights. Alex watched the sentry-thief. He had watched him carefully at every opportunity the last few nights. The sentry would be there until dawn. Tonight, however, he slept, though you would not know without getting up close. Alex moved from shadow to shadow, and looked up at the sentry from yet another angle.
Alex had paid the apothecary well for the sleeping potion, saying that his dear sweet grandmother’s insomnia was making her harsh and her harshness was making her daughter in law’s tongue sharp, and her sharpness was making her husband drink and the drink was making him brutal and his son’s own life miserable. Could he please give her and her family some much deserved rest. The apothecary had at first thought Alex meant to poison his dear sweet invented grandmother, and vehemently and self-righteously protested he would do no such thing. Alex had been aghast, exclaiming, with hand figuratively over much injured heart, that he meant his grandmother no harm, only the sweet dreams that she could no longer find, or at least dreamless rest. Age is such a burden on those we love. Could he please, please help her. He loved her so much. It was so hard to see her suffering so. His heart was almost breaking, and his mother seemed to have forgotten her kindness, and his father had become so horribly violent. It was only a matter of time before his father struck his own mother, and who could live with himself, knowing that he had had the means to prevent such a tragedy…and not done so. Alex had actually wept as his eyes added weight to the accusation. The apothecary had relented. He had said to be careful, never to use more than half a dozen drops, as it was very strong.
Alex had experimented with a single drop on a cat that came into his room. It had lapped up the whole bowl of milk infused with the potion. It had lain down and quickly become completely motionless. He was sure he had killed it. He wondered if the apothecary really had thought he meant to poison his grandmother, and had only been cautious in admitting explicitly his nefarious willingness to assist the murderer. Alex thought it just as well he did not really have a dear sweet grandmother. But, on closer inspection, he had seen the cat only slept very deeply, taking only two shallow breaths every minute or so. He poked it, but it did not stir. He shook it. Still nothing. The potion had the desired effect. The following morning the cat had awoken, purring as it rubbed itself against its benefactor’s leg, to all appearances unharmed.
Delivering the potion to the sentry-thief had been trickier than enticing a cat with a bowl of milk. The potion worked quickly, and the man had to be in position in case anyone from the guild should look. In the end the sentry’s summer cold had provided the means. He frequently rubbed his nose on his tunic sleeve. When he had climbed to his post Alex had climbed behind him, close enough to reach out and touch him. He was proud of his ability to sneak up so close to a professional thief, exhilarated by the closeness of danger, and dripped the potion on the sentry’s sleeve. The sentry had not noticed a thing. Alex had waited. The sentry had rubbed his nose. Soon after he had dozed. Alex had dripped more of the potion on his lips. The sentry had licked his lips. He had fallen into a deep sleep.
Alex had carefully propped him, so that any thief looking from the roofs across the street would see him upright, hidden in shadow from ordinary view, but apparently diligent in his duties to those with sharper eyes, accustomed to working in the dark. Alex had examined him from the rooftops and the ground, from several different angles, and was now sure no one would notice he slept. Neither would anyone but a thief, assassin or prowling cat see him at all.
Alex crept over to the side of the House of Delight furthest from its doors. He flung up his grapple, checked that it had caught, and climbed the wall of the brothel, in a place where the shadows of surrounding buildings and the thatch of the playhouse converged to make the dark night even more impenetrable to curious eyes. From the top, he snuck along the tiles to the edge, and strained his ears. There was no noise coming from below. He reached over the eaves, and with a slim piece of flexible copper, especially designed for the task, lifted the latch on the inside of the slatted shutters to Rose’s room. It was, as it had been for several nights, dark inside.
He swung down from the eaves, and silently landed on the sill, then slid down to squat on the floor. He listened carefully and waited for his eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. He supressed his own breathing to the point that even he could not hear it, and listened for any other breathing in the room. He heard no sound of nearby floorboards creaking. A sudden crack. It was only the usual sound of timbers in a building. He searched around the room. Rose’s things were still here. If the guild had murdered her, or had her murdered, surely one of the other whores would have taken her place. Rose’s profitability had earned her the nicest room, apart from that of the brothel madam, Charlotte. So where was she? Despite reason, he could not shake the feeling that she was gone for good. And that, he was certain, meant that she was dead.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor beyond. They were heavy. Not like a thief’s, and not like a young woman’s. It was Charlotte, an old flame of the Lord of Law. If anyone knew where Rose was, or her corpse, it would be her. He touched the hilt of his sword, then reached for a dagger in his boot instead. He had never used it to threaten anyone, but if they had harmed Rose…. He moved silently toward the door. Charlotte’s room was one over from Rose’s. She did not stop there. She came on down the corridor. The light of her lamp lit the doorway as he slid into the deepest shadows of the room, behind a screen from which some of Rose’s clothes still hung. He gripped the dagger tightly. Charlotte stepped into the room. He warned himself not to be careless. She was not a slight woman, and she had been known to thrash customers over non-payment for services rendered, or for “damaging the goods without sufficient compensation,” as she called the bashing of her charges. Rose had told him Charlotte also specialised in tying men up and thrashing them for their pleasure, and that she was good enough at it for several lords of the assembly to be her willing slaves. She lumbered into the room, her lamp casting shadows from the objects around her. She looked to the open window. Silently Alex slid behind her, and snaked his arm over her shoulder. Though she was not unusually loud, next to Alex her breath was like the rumblings in a dragon’s throat. Then the sharp blade cut her soft flesh. It was only a knick, but she knew where she stood.
“Where is she?” he hissed in her ear.
“You don’t know?” Her voice was amused, and she did not try to free herself.
“I’ve never murdered anyone,” he said, “but I might still learn.”
“Of course, you’re young. And in love.”
He slid the edge of the knife along her throat, and she sucked in air sharply.
“And you have murdered someone, haven’t you, Alex?” Her voice was still mocking.
The thought of Rose brutalised and dying made him wa
nt to kill her then, and though he did not hold the sword the voice came in his head, so familiar now. And now it did not make him shudder. Now he knew he truly wanted what it wanted. He wanted to kill. It spoke of blood, and in its call he felt no terror, only comfort. He drew the knife further across, pressing it harder.
“You don’t want to do that, Alex,” she said, and now the mockery was gone, replaced with panic as she realised he might truly murder her.
“And why not. You murdered her.”
“I didn’t.”
“But your lover did. The Lord of Law. Did you laugh when he told you what the manglers had done?”
“No one has killed Rose.” Her tone expressed genuine horror. “No one would kill Rose. I wouldn’t let them.”
For a moment he believed her, then he remembered her profession. She traded in illusion, in lies of love. But he did not press the blade any closer.
“Why should I believe anything you say?”
He heard the footsteps then, the heavy thud of boots from the playhouse gallery. In his eagerness to find Rose he had been careless, assuming the presence of only the sentry he could easily spot. There must have been another watching from a distant rooftop, or from the high clock tower. And worse than not thinking clearly, he had let down his guard in his rage. Now that he listened more carefully he could hear the more silent feet of real thieves in the corridor. He spun Charlotte around, holding the knife firmly to her throat, and backed toward the window. One of the thieves slid like an oily shadow into the doorway, eyes glinting in the light of Charlotte’s lamp. Alex dropped his hand to the empty pommel of the sword. “Blood,” it cried, almost piteously. There were tears in his eyes. He did not know what advantage it would give him against so many, but he hoped to kill a few before they killed him. Maybe, by luck or the grace of the gods, he would kill the one who had murdered Rose.
Horn of the River God: Book I of The Song of Agmar Page 48