Four Summoner’s Tales

by Kelley Armstrong, Christopher Golden, David Liss

  The facts, therefore, bore out my claims, and while having had a drunken oaf for my sire might have tarnished my reputation in some circles, my evident fortune, which I displayed with tasteful reluctance, sufficed to compensate. At the theater, at the opera, and through the rambles, I rarely saw any of my old acquaintances, and when I did, nothing more than an uncomfortable bow passed between us. Good manners and embarrassment, not to mention fear of my wrath, prevented any of that set from disclosing my necromantic secret.

  I had taken on my father, and I had won. I had taken on death, the king of terrors itself, and made it my servant. In doing all this, I had betrayed Lady Caroline, and that mistake still haunted me. Do not think otherwise. Not a day went by, not an hour in each day, nor even a minute in each hour, that I did not think of what I had done with regret. If only I had chosen one of the other widows to torment, how much better, how much easier, would have been my life. Perhaps Lady Caroline would not have forgiven me, but at least she would have been safe and well and happy.

  I set about in an effort to erase the mistakes of my past and enjoy my new life. I took pleasure in my new friends, in being a man about town. I flirted with some women, and more, you may be certain, flirted with me. If I was not serious in any of these encounters, I managed to take some small pleasure in them. In sum, I could not change the past, and so I made it my business to enjoy the present that I had labored so hard to achieve. In this pursuit, I was successful.

  But that was before the queen began to search for me.

  * * *

  I was dining at my club when I overheard the conversation between two older gentlemen I found intolerably fatuous.

  “It is most unusual,” said Mr. Fallows, a man of about fifty with a long face and an enormous nose, the tip of which pointed down, almost touching his upper lip. Indeed, it wiggled when he spoke. He also had enormously wide eyes, and his wigs were inclined toward the frizzy. Taken as a whole, he gave every impression of being a man who had just been startled unto his death.

  “I agree with you there, sir,” said Mr. Christopher, some five years his friend’s senior. He was less grotesque in his face, but far more so in his person. Rarely did one see a man of Mr. Christopher’s rotundity. He required a cane to walk, and often the assistance of two or three servants to rise from his chair. No one liked these two save each other, but despite their disagreeable personalities and appearances, they were always remarkably well informed. It was something of a mystery how men no one was inclined to speak to somehow knew everything.

  “A unique series of events,” said Mr. Fallows, continuing.

  “No precedent, sir. None at all,” agreed Mr. Christopher.

  They had become something of a fixture in the club. They were apt to speak thus loudly until someone inquired of their subject, for they loved nothing more than to demonstrate their knowledge. I was walking past, quite prepared to continue on, when I heard something I could not ignore.

  “It’s a deuced bad time for some jackanapes to start pulling people from their graves,” Mr. Fallows said. “And Sir Albert, of all people. That pot has been stirred, sir. Stirred very much indeed.”

  “To overflowing,” agreed Mr. Christopher, nodding so that the flesh about his chin and neck jiggled like aspic. “The Germans have certainly noticed.”

  I paused and turned to them, raising my glass of wine in salute. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I could not help but overhear.”

  At this, they both smiled.

  “All of London speaks of the necromancer, but what concern is this of the Germans?” I asked.

  “Have a seat, Mr. January,” Fallows said, pointing toward an empty chair. “And we shall tell you.”

  “With great pleasure,” agreed Mr. Christopher.

  I had hardly touched breeches to upholstery before Fallows began. “The queen wishes to employ the services of the necromancer. She proposes that we have a former corpse sit upon the throne.”

  In retrospect, I should have seen that my skill would be of interest to Queen Anne and her court. She was known to be ill, and it was widely rumored that she was dying, which was always a complicated thing for a monarch without an heir. More than ten years earlier, Parliament, determined that no Catholic monarch should ever rule the kingdom, had passed the Act of Settlement, requiring that the succession pass over dozens of more closely related relations—all of whom were of the Romish persuasion—to descend upon the queen’s extremely distant cousin Sophia, electress of Hanover. This would be the end of the house of Stuart and the beginning of an England ruled over by German louts. No one was pleased about this prospect. At least, no one but the Whigs, for they had worked tirelessly to ensure that England would have a Protestant monarch. Better a Protestant foreigner than an Englishman with Papist leanings.

  Queen Anne, as my readers well know, had many miscarriages and brought more than a few children to term only to have them stillborn. Only once did a child of hers survive infancy, but much to the nation’s collective sadness, William, Duke of Gloucester, had died of a fever just after his own eleventh birthday.

  Mr. Fallows leaned back, swirling a glass of wine in his hand. His frizzled wig sat askew on his head. “I suspect there will be much arguing about this in Parliament, but I’m not sure there is anything to be done. I’ve never heard of a bill forbidding formerly dead men from taking the throne.” He sipped his drink, and wine stained the tip of his nose.

  “There can be no such law passed,” said Mr. Christopher, “for such a bill would prevent Jesus from being king.”

  “I’m not sure He has the right to be king of England, savior or no,” said Mr. Fallows. “Let Him prove his bloodlines first, I say. Ha ha. And in any case, if there were to be such a bill, Jesus as an exception could be written into it.”

  “Very true,” his friend agreed. “We can always make an exception for the messiah.”

  “One moment,” I said. “What precisely is the queen offering the necromancer?”

  “Land,” said Mr. Fallows. “Wealth and title. He would be a duke, I should think. The man who can return her son to her will become one of the greatest men in the kingdom.”

  I took a drink of my own wine and considered this. I had not wanted to pursue more wealth, but a man could hardly refuse the will of his rightful monarch. I would not have my readers suppose this is mere posturing on my part, either. I was not looking for an excuse to accept this offer. The truth was, I would rather have been an obscure and comfortable gentleman than be thrust into notoriety by returning a dead prince to life. My own life should have become miserable. Perhaps I would have been a duke, but half the kingdom would have been pounding upon my door, begging me to restore this person or that. The other half would have been begging me to refrain from doing so. It would have become impossible for me to live the kind of quiet life I most enjoyed.

  On the other hand, I could ask the queen not to reveal my name. I did not need to have a title, did I? If she wished to reward me with property and gold in secret, I would accept such terms. I would be very reluctant to make it a public matter.

  “I would think the necromancer, if he is a patriot, would have to obey this summons,” I said.

  “If he is a Tory,” said Mr. Fallows.

  “A Tory who has taught his technique to a friend,” added Mr. Christopher, “for he will be a dead Tory the moment he steps forward.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to conceal my alarm.

  “It is inevitable,” said Mr. Christopher, “that this offer has been met with very little delight from the Whigs. They have invested in the Hanoverians, and they mean to have their German monarch. The Whigs will not allow their chance at power to escape them. Far easier to slit the necromancer’s throat, I should think.”

  “Surely they would not murder to advance politics,” I said.

  Both men laughed. I do not recommend gazing upon such men laughing. It is unpretty.

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Christopher with a slap upon h
is massive thigh. “Not politics. Money. There are contracts, positions, sinecures to be had once the Hanoverians take the crown. They have been waiting for Anne to die, and now that she is upon the threshold of the abyss, they will not allow some petty magician to ruin their chances.”

  “It is so very ironic,” said Mr. Fallows, “that the most dangerous enemy this necromancer will have is the one man he is known to have returned from the grave.”

  “Sir Albert Worthington?” I asked.

  “None other,” said Mr. Christopher. “You must know he was pivotal in the passage of the Act of Settlement and is said to be one of the electress’s most vital agents here in England. At least he was when he was alive.”

  “And now he is again,” said Mr. Christopher.

  “Indeed,” agreed Mr. Fallows. “Alive once more, and so an agent once more, I must think. He has been rumored to say, and in the presence of the greatest men in the kingdom, that this necromancer must be stopped at all costs, that to sit a corpse upon the throne would be an abomination, and it would lead to another civil war. Do you know what these great men replied, Mr. January? Can you guess?”

  I could not, and said as much.

  “I shall tell him,” volunteered Mr. Christopher. “They replied, behind closed doors, mind you, so no one would know—”

  “No one!” cried Mr. Fallows with nose-wagging mirth.

  “No rumors would spread!” laughed Mr. Christopher.

  “What did they say?” I demanded with a severity that seemed to shock the two men.

  Mr. Christopher sharply looked at me. “No need to be so animated, Mr. January. I shall tell you. Be patient.”

  “No rush,” said Mr. Fallows. “The club is not on fire, I trust.”

  “I smell no smoke,” agreed Mr. Christopher.

  With great effort, I refrained from speaking another word.

  At last, seeing I would not allow them to extend the conversation further, Mr. Christopher sighed, as if having lost something of enormous value, and proceeded. “They told him that, as he had a nearer connection to the necromancer than any person in London, Sir Albert must do all in his power to prevent the man from granting the queen’s wish.”

  “It is a bad season for necromancy,” said Mr. Fallows.

  “The worst I can recall,” agreed Mr. Christopher.

  The two commenced once more to laughter and I excused myself.

  I returned home in a state of agitation that evening, and my servants informed me that there was a guest awaiting me in my parlor. I rarely received guests in my home, and so this surprised me, but not as much as when I saw who it was—Lady Caroline.

  * * *

  I stared at her in surprise. She stood by the fire, her back to me, holding a glass of wine in her hand. Her velvet gown, the color of the wine she drank, highlighted the perfection of her form. Her hair was piled high under her hat, and delightful curls slipped loose.

  I was filled with love and desire and loneliness and regret. She had been wrong to reject me—that much was certain—but for all that, I would have done anything to undo my terrible act. However, even I, granted by fate the godlike power over life and death, could not change the past.

  “I am surprised to find you here,” I said. My voice was dry and brittle. I hated sounding weak, but if there was a person to whom I would gladly submit, it was she.

  She turned to me, and I could see that she had been crying. Is there anything more melancholy than tears upon the face you love?

  “You are a villain,” she said, “but you are not the worst kind of villain. No, that title is reserved for my husband, whom you have returned to the world.”

  “I ought not to have done it,” I told her. “I acted out of anger.”

  “I know,” she said, casting her eyes upon the floor. “You wronged me, but there was some truth in what you said, and I own I can understand your motives and I believe that you do—did—love me in truth.”

  “I did and I still do,” I said, stepping toward her.

  She held up her hand to stop me. “It is too late for that. In bringing Sir Albert back from his grave, you have not only made me miserable, but you have endangered yourself.”

  “I have heard he intends to harm the necromancer, but surely he cannot know who I am.”

  She swallowed the remainder of her wine and set the goblet down upon the mantel. “He has long suspected I know who returned him from death, though I denied it. I think Susan betrayed me. It would be like her, I think. It hardly matters. He demanded I tell him who had returned him. I tried to refuse. I tried to appeal to his better nature, but there is not such a thing. He hurt me, Mr. January. He hurt me where he knew the world would not see the bruises.”

  Again, I took a step toward her. “Caroline,” I said.

  “No.” She backed away, as though I too would bring her harm. “Do not touch me. I am sorry, Mr. January. I hate you for what you’ve done to me, but because I know I played a part in this, that I could have been kinder, I come to bring you warning. My husband has always been loyal to Sophia of Hanover, and he has always been a staunch Whig. He would have done anything to end the Stuart succession, and he will not allow you to bring the prince back from the grave. And, he is altered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He is not the same as he was before,” she told me, her voice now sounding wild. “He is worse. He is crueler and more hurtful. He was always unkind, but not this bad. Death and resurrection, I fear, have heightened what was worst in him and dulled what little there was of good.”

  I took a moment to consider what she said. I had not only brought a bad man back from the grave, but in doing so, I had made him worse.

  “I am sorry, Lady Caroline,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Sorrow will get you nothing. You cannot fathom how you hurt me, and I have hated you for it, but I will not see you murdered because of me. You must know that he will come here before night’s end, and he will have his particular villain with him. He will force you to reveal your secrets, and when there is nothing more to be learned from you, he will kill you.”

  I smirked. I was my father’s son, after all, and I was not afraid of the baronet, recently returned from the dead. His particular villain, indeed. I should have liked to have the opportunity to teach this fellow a thing or two about villainy.

  “Let him try,” I said.

  “You do not understand.”

  “No, you do not understand. I am no coward to be threatened. I shall be waiting for him with sword and loaded pistols, and, if necessary, I shall send him back to the grave from which I so foolishly plucked him.”

  “He will have you outnumbered.”

  “Numbers do not signify. They will have to gain the house to fight me, and I shall happily dispatch any lackey Sir Albert cares to bring with him.”

  “You underestimate his resolve,” Lady Caroline said, growing exasperated by my failure to quake in fear. “If Sophia takes the throne, he stands to be one of the most powerful men in the country, and his return from the grave has emboldened him. You must flee. Tonight. Take what you can carry and leave London. If you do not, you will be dead before morning, and your secrets will be in Albert’s hands.”

  “I will not flee,” I said. “I would have to abandon my home and my wealth.”

  “Leave your damn wealth!” she shouted at me. “You stole it from my friends once they saw what you had done to me. The money is as vile as your terrible secret. Besides,” she added with a sneer, “I have no doubt a man of your stripe can always procure more.”

  I did not love that she should judge me so, but I knew I was not entirely undeserving of her rebuke.

  Indeed, I was prepared to tell her as much when my serving man—James, I called him, though I did not know his real name—came into the room to tell me that there were two men outside, one of whom could not be called a gentleman, and they both insisted upon seeing me at once.

  Lady Caroline gasped. “I did not think them
to come so soon.”

  I turned to my man. “In a few moments, I will ask you to lead Lady Caroline out the back way and to safety. I shall deal with these men myself.”

  “No!” Lady Caroline exclaimed. “They will kill you!”

  “Perhaps they believe they will,” I replied.

  I asked the serving man to hold them off for a few more minutes. When he left the room, I turned back to Lady Caroline. “I will not run from my own home, and I will not see you hurt. He cannot know you were here.”

  She nodded, and then, to my surprise, she reached out and took my hand. She yet wore her gloves, but my own hand was naked, and the smoothness of the satin was exquisite.

  “I will never again allow you to come to harm,” I said.

  She took away her hand. It was like having my heart torn from my chest. “I wish things might have been different between us,” she said.

  I wanted to tell her that they still might be, but I did not think she would want to hear those words just now, so I nodded and sent her on her way. I then directed my man to admit Sir Albert. My orders were that my man would show him the way to the parlor but not enter it himself.

  When Sir Albert entered a few minutes later, I was prepared. I stood in my parlor, goblet of wine in my hand, sword at my side, prominently displayed. My suit was very well cut, emphasizing my own handsome physique—the strength in my shoulders and calves was quite evident. Sir Albert might have been a large man himself, but I fancied I made an imposing figure.

  Sir Albert walked through the door, and I began to wonder if I had been overly optimistic. I had forgotten just how tall, just how fit he had been that day at his house. He strode into the room like a giant entering a village he was prepared to crush under his boots. And he was not the worst of it. By his side was a nasty-looking fellow in rough clothes, though neat. He was not as tall as Sir Albert, but he was brutish in appearance, animal-like, with a low brow, long hair, a protruding muzzle, and scars across his face. He grinned at me, showing a set of uneven teeth, ranging in color from yellow to black.