by Alexis Hall
“If you’re a spy,” came a voice at my elbow, “you’re doing a terrible job of it.”
I turned to see a slight, delicate-featured young man with waist-length white hair and thick glasses. The discreet silver brooch pinned to the lapel of his charcoal-grey suit marked him out as an agent of the Ossuary Bank. As, for that matter, did the presence beside him of a six-foot-tall animated corpse in footman’s livery, its eyes and lips sewn shut with copper thread. I was, on a rational level, aware that the Ossuary Bank provided numerous valuable services that underlay the entire economy of the city and much of the wider world. On a more visceral, personal level, however, I could not help but recoil from a man, however winsome he appeared, whose profession required him to routinely violate the sanctity of the grave.
Inching slightly farther from the gentleman, I endeavoured to explain myself. “I’m just looking for somebody.”
“You probably won’t find them stuck to the wall.”
“Ah. No. I daresay I shall not.”
“Don’t worry. I’m terrible with balls too.” The young necromancer flushed. “Sorry. That came out all wrong.”
This conversation was fast reaching a point at which it would have been uncomfortable even without the looming shadow of the ambulatory cadaver. “No matter. I’m afraid I really must—”
“You’re not Eyan, are you?”
“Well, yes, as it happens I am. But I really must—”
“That explains the pallor. I mean, not that it’s bad. I actually rather like it. I mean, not that I like pale things in general. I mean, I’m not into corpses. Not that you look like a corpse.” He paused and pushed his glasses back into place. “It’s just, being with the bank—people get the oddest ideas.”
I couldn’t quite prevent my gaze from alighting on the gentleman’s deceased associate. “I’m sure I can’t imagine why.”
“Really? Well, I suppose it’s got something to do with the fact that we traffic in sorceries which transgress the most sacred taboos of most cultures and religions.” He blinked and his face fell. “Wait. Were you being sarcastic?”
I confess that this shamed me a little. My intent had been to balance condemnation with diplomacy, but it appeared I had succeeded only in being arch. “I am sorry. That was unbecoming of me.”
“No, I understand. The truth is, I mostly work in currencies. But then, I suppose I still spend more time conjuring forbidden darkness from beyond the veil of night than the median citizen.”
Apart from that small detail, he seemed a very pleasant fellow, if a trifle odd. And the bright green of his eyes behind his glasses gave him a certain disarming quality to which I was not insensible. Still, I could not shake the awareness that he openly practised the same arts that had held my people in thrall for five centuries.
“Without wishing to give offence,” I said, “I fear I am prohibited by my religion from having any dealings with necromancers.”
He looked downcast. “I was only going to ask if you wanted to visit a coffeehouse. There’s a lovely place by the docks in Khel where they serve these honeyed pastries.”
I had not quite expected the conversation to take this turn. Obviously I had been for coffee with gentlemen before, the beverage being relatively unknown in my homeland and therefore not proscribed. But, by some quirk of either my culture or my character, I had little facility in identifying when an invitation might be forthcoming. On this occasion, I cannot deny I was flattered, but nevertheless I baulked. “That is very kind of you, but I must decline.”
“Oh.” The young man removed his glasses, buffed them against his sleeve, and put them on again. “I suppose it would be a bit awkward what with your nation hating everything I stand for. Probably I should have thought of that earlier. It’s just you seemed so nice, even though you were scuttling around the ballroom like a confused octopus.”
“I beg your pardon, I was not scuttling. And I’m not sure octopuses scuttle.”
He thought about this for a second and then perked up visibly. “Well, if you weren’t scuttling and octopuses don’t scuttle, then you were, in fact, scuttling like an octopus.”
That hurt my head a little but I was eventually forced to concede the logic of it.
“Anyway,” continued the necromancer, “Blingfeather’s Manual of Etiquette is a bit silent on how to deal with somebody who tells you their god won’t let them speak to you at a party. But it’s probably polite to leave you alone.”
In truth I was a little conflicted. The theological position on this matter was clear but, notwithstanding his terrifying servant, the gentleman was not without his charms. “Um. Yes. That’s probably appropriate.”
He bobbed a hurried bow and offered me a small square of ivory-coloured card. “In case you change your mind,” he said. “Or need financial advice.” Before I could reply, he pivoted and hurried away into the crowd.
The card read: Mr. Jeremiah Donne. Money Changers and Sin Eaters. The Ossuary Bank. Although I anticipated little need to contact the gentleman, I stored the article about my person and continued my sweep of the perimeter.
Finally, by utter happenstance, the crowd shifted at exactly the right moment and in exactly the right configuration to grant me a clear view of Miss Viola dancing a waltz with a lady I took to be her fiancée. They made a handsome couple, though Miss Viola was the more striking of the two with her Carcosan eyes and auburn hair. Miss Beck, however, complemented her well, having something of the quality of an Athran rose, her fair skin a little blushed and lightly freckled.
I fear that even with my long exposure to Khelathran social mores I found the waltz a rather shocking dance, necessitating as it did such an intimacy between the partners. Nevertheless they moved gracefully together and appeared to possess a comfort with each other that I momentarily envied. Miss Viola had a lightness about her that I had not observed on her visit to 221b Martyrs Walk, a certain ease of manner that made her look, for want of a less bald term, happy. I was then aware of a growing sense of shame at my intrusion and, discomforted by my mission, ducked behind a gentleman in a green waistcoat.
From here I was uncertain as to what I should do next. While Ms. Haas’s instructions had been specific, I could see little to be gained by continuing to spy on the two ladies. Certainly, there seemed no strife between them and it would have been most improbable that Miss Beck would suddenly break off in the middle of a dance and exposit an item of useful information that I could report to my companion.
It was at this juncture that, despite my best attempts to remain unobtrusive, I was approached by a shaven-headed woman whose eyes and mouth were filled with roiling celestial fire. She wore a gown trimmed with rich ermine and cockatrice scales, indicating that she was almost certainly a representative of the Ubiquitous Company of Skinners.
“Care to dance the next?” She held out a hand. Her expression was difficult to read owing to the strange illumination of the star-white not-flames that emanated from within her.
“Thank you, but I have not the character nor the practice.”
Her smile cast her features briefly into shadow. “You should acquire them. Without dancing, these balls are all business.”
“I’m just here looking for a friend.”
“As you wish.” She dropped a neat curtsy and left in search of a more suitable partner.
I returned my attention to the crowd and realised I had lost all sight of Miss Viola. Then an arm slipped through mine and I found myself being manoeuvred deftly into one of the more discreet corners of the hall. My manoeuvrer, as the astute reader may already have surmised, was none other than the lady herself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Miss Cora Beck
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, with no trace of her former sanguinity. “And, more to the point, what’s she doing here?”
I was beginning to recognise in both Ms. Haas and
Miss Viola that the one would adopt a particular tone when speaking of the other. Thus I was in no doubt as to the identity of the “she” to whom my interlocutor alluded. “Ms. Haas felt it best to eliminate your fiancée and her associates from our enquiries.”
“Well, she can go home. It’s not Cora, and I will not have her ruin the very thing I am trying to protect.”
“I’m sure Ms. Haas will do nothing to jeopardise your happiness.”
“She has no interest in happiness, mine or anybody else’s.” Her gaze flicked nervously over her shoulder. “Please leave, Mr. Wyndham. This isn’t helping me. It’s just some game of Shaharazad’s.”
Despite the fact that Ms. Haas had told me quite explicitly that she considered the opportunity to discomfort Miss Viola a positive benefit of this course of action, I nonetheless found it difficult to believe that she could truly be so callous. “I find it difficult to believe,” I said, “that she could truly be so callous.”
“Then you’re an even bigger fool than you look.”
“I do not believe it foolish to see the best in people.” With as much politeness as I could manage, I extricated myself from her hold. “And while your faith in Miss Beck is commendable, might she not have enemies or even allies who would not wish to see her married to you?”
Before Miss Viola could make reply, we were interrupted by her fiancée.
“There you are.” Miss Beck seemed wryly amused at having temporarily misplaced her intended, and knowing what I did of Miss Viola, I suspected it was a not uncommon occurrence. “If you wanted to lurk in a dark corner, you could’ve just asked.”
Miss Viola smiled as she had on the dance floor. “If I wanted to lurk with you in a dark corner I’d pick one that wasn’t already occupied and wasn’t in a formal banqueting hall filled with half the dignitaries of the Ubiquitous Companies.”
“Och, where’s your sense of adventure?”
The two ladies shared an embrace, Miss Viola having shed utterly all of the suspicion and hostility that had characterised her manner since she first accosted me.
“I’m sorry for vanishing on you,” she said. “I just spotted Mr. Wyndham here. He’s a wool trader lately arrived from Ey. I happened to meet him in town and I realised that we haven’t yet arranged for a blessing in the name of the Creator at the wedding. After all, if anyone would know the proper rituals, it would be an Eyan.”
As a lie it had the uncomfortable virtue of being plausibly close to the truth. Khelathrans, especially those amongst the Ubiquitous Companies, have a somewhat transactional relationship with the gods, and it is considered both wise and propitious to arrange for any significant undertaking to be blessed by as many deities as possible. And I would, in fact, have been most happy to provide such a service for Miss Beck and Miss Viola. All that being said, the facility and alacrity with which our client concocted so unfalsifiable a deception gave me pause.
“Good thinking, Eirene. We can probably fit him in between the offering to Thotek the Devourer and the Scourge-Priest of Vu.” She loosened her grip on Miss Viola and turned towards me. “So what brings you to Khelathra-Ven, Mr. Wyndham?”
“Um, well, that is, I . . . I mean . . .”
“While we can’t expect Mr. Wyndham to give away trade secrets,” Miss Viola cut in, sparing me further mortification, “I believe I overheard one of the tailors speculating that there would be a surge in demand for wool in the coming months owing to the emergence of new markets in the Silver Byways of Farath-Lein.”
“But of course,” I added, endeavouring to deceive as honestly as possible, “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
Miss Beck nodded emphatically. “I quite understand, Mr. Wyndham. You never know who’s listening at these kinds of events.”
There followed a moment’s awkward silence. This is my perennial experience of large social gatherings but was, in this instance, further exacerbated by the awareness that I was required not only to subtly interrogate Miss Beck regarding the possibility that she, or a close associate, might in fact be a nefarious blackmailer but to do so in the persona of a wool merchant. I knew then, and know now, nothing about wool.
“Might I observe,” I said when the lull in conversation had long passed the point of acceptability, “that you make a very handsome couple?”
“You might.” Miss Beck flashed me a grin that put me somewhat in mind of Ms. Haas in one of her more wicked moods. “Go on, then. Observe it.”
I flustered. “Well, you . . . um . . . you make a most handsome couple.”
The ladies laughed, although I thought I caught a look of suspicion just fleetingly in the eye of Miss Viola. “Aye, I struck lucky with this one,” continued Miss Beck rather proudly. “Not that my parents see it that way.”
“They object to your choice?” I flattered myself that my gambit had worked rather well. And another flash of warning from Miss Viola suggested that such flattery was not wholly unwarranted.
“You know how it is,” Miss Beck replied with the air of one who confidently assumes that you will indeed know how it is no matter how manifestly divergent your circumstances are from her own. “They think everyone from Carcosa is a malingering lotus eater taking food from the mouths of hardworking Athrans.”
Miss Viola pressed a fleeting kiss to her fiancée’s cheek. “Some of us are even stealing your women.”
“I prefer to think of it”—Miss Beck had that wicked look again—“as a long-term investment in an emerging market.”
I seemed to have lost the ladies’ attention, for they were, once more, quite rapt with each other. Under any other circumstances I should have left them to enjoy their evening, but I was conscious of a certain pressure to return to Ms. Haas with useful intelligence. “In Ey a lady would never dream of marrying a person of whom her parents disapproved.”
Of course, in Ey a lady would never dream of marrying another lady. Then again, perhaps I was being naive. I have, after all, myself lived a life that the culture of my homeland holds unconscionable.
“Eh.” Miss Beck shrugged. “They’ll come round. In Athra, you can get away with anything as long as it’s not bad for business, and Eirene’s been very open about her past. She was adventurous and a bit disreputable when she was younger, but it’s not like she’s murdered anyone.”
I cleared my throat, which had gone unexpectedly dry. “That would—”
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I was spared the embarrassment of either affirming or denying the veracity of Miss Beck’s somewhat misguided assertion for, at that moment, a tremendous commotion occurred on the other side of the hall. Turning, I saw Mr. Donne—the representative of the Ossuary Bank who had asked me so forwardly for coffee earlier in the evening—standing over the prostrate body of his undead servant. As the crowd parted around him I saw also that he stood opposite the sorceress Shaharazad Haas, her multicoloured silks gleaming in the lamplight, one hand raised, an incantation dying on her lips.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Disagreement
“You just destroyed my revenant.” Mr. Donne’s tone was less that of a powerful necromancer incandescent with fury and more that of a man who has left a restaurant to find that the hubcaps have been stolen from his carriage.
Ms. Haas lowered her arm and wiped what appeared to be a bloodstain from her palm with a fine handkerchief. “Your powers of observation, sir, do credit to your order.”
“You know the Charter of Sepulchres gives me the right to strike you dead on the spot for that.”
“And”—my companion gave a broad and frankly worrying smile—“you are most welcome to make the attempt.”
In all candour, the gentleman did not seem wholly enamoured of the idea of engaging Ms. Haas in direct magical confrontation. However, as the only representative of the Ossuary Bank in the vicinity, it fell to him to demonstrate that his employers were not lightly crossed. “Right.
Well. Then. I’ll be doing . . . that.”
“Oh, do get on with it. Or I shall have expired from boredom before I have the opportunity to show you what a titanic error you’re making.”
Mr. Donne looked down, pressed his fingertips together, and began to speak in the language of ancient Khel. The room grew at once darker and colder. Indistinct figures began to appear amongst the guests and, to my distress, I felt a ghostly presence at my shoulder. Hesitant to look but sensible of the dangers of ignorance, I glanced behind me. The apparition took the form of my younger brother Thomas, named for Thomas Latimer, now Lord Protector; a boy of about seventeen in whom I saw a little of myself and much of my father. He had died of some sudden and virulent illness while I was away at university, and I had not been invited to the funeral. I reached a hand towards him, but if the spirit saw me at all he paid me no mind.
With a certain awful fascination I took note of who amongst the assembly had their own spectral attendant. Most, it seemed, had somebody, although there was no pattern or uniformity to them. Some were old, some young, some bore the marks of violent death, many were children. Miss Beck was flanked by a man and a woman, both of advanced years. They had the look of family about them although they seemed no more sensible of her presence than my brother was of mine. By contrast, Miss Viola stood quite alone, a distinction she shared with the flame-eyed skinner who had asked me to dance earlier in the evening. Ms. Haas, however, was surrounded by a veritable throng, who swirled around her so thickly that it was impossible to discern individuals amongst them.