Ward Against Death (Chronicles of a Reluctant Necromancer)

by Melanie Card

  Ward pushed that thought from his mind, not wanting to fail at his first solo mission, and brushed the front of his shirt.

  He glanced down the street again and sucked in a slow breath. The air, thick with humidity, stank with the pungent reek of dead fish and salt water. He brushed the front of his shirt two more times, and still couldn’t bring himself to go.

  He pursed his lips.

  This was ridiculous.

  Just cross the street.

  Before he could take another breath, look, fidget, or do anything else, he forced one foot in front of the other and crept to his building. At the door he paused, glanced around one last time, and opened it.

  It groaned, loud in the quiet street.

  Ward cringed, certain he’d woken the entire neighborhood. But no one came running or called out, so he entered and climbed the three flights to his apartment—which was actually only a room, but he felt more important calling it an apartment.

  He eased open his door and peered inside. It looked as it always did. Books piled on the small shelf by the bed, a tin goblet on the bed table, and his clothes, in the open wardrobe, hanging in color-coordination. He obviously wasn’t of any interest to Celia’s father.

  That was a relief. Maybe after all of this he could disappear, go to another principality, and live a quiet life.

  First things first, however. His medical supplies. He headed to the wardrobe, pulled out his rucksack, then crossed to the bed in two steps. He knelt to take a quick peek to ensure there were no surprises waiting for him.

  Nothing. He reached under, removed a tiny black leather case, and undid the hook. Inside, gleaming as if they were new and not just clean, were his illegal tools of surgery, an assortment of thin, long-handled knives, tweezers, scissors, and needles.

  He hooked the case closed and stuffed it into the rucksack, then reached again and took out his book of surgery. When given to him in secret by Professor Schlier its pages were crisp, but now they were dog-eared and wrinkled, worn from the hundreds of times he’d read each page, absorbing and memorizing every word. That, too, went into the bag.

  One more time under the bed, and he grabbed another black leather case, this one three times the size of the first, fortified by a wooden frame. He didn’t check the contents. It was just his collection of herbs, gauzes, and threads, and they were easier to replace than his knives.

  After that, he contemplated the books on his shelf but decided there were too many. A clean shirt and his two favorite jugs of wine were a much better choice.

  He set his rucksack on the bed. The shirts hung in the wardrobe, and the narrow jugs of wine sat in a perfect, organized row along the back. He rolled the wine in a tan shirt and stuffed those in the sack. It was full, but not unmanageable. Time to get back to Celia. He headed to the door and swung it open.

  A looming shadow made him jump and stumble back. His heart beat with furious thumps. It had to be that man from the Keeper’s house.

  He swallowed and looked up.

  It wasn’t.

  It was the Tracker.

  Ice blossomed in Ward’s stomach. He squeezed the rucksack’s leather strap.

  “Going somewhere?” the Tracker asked.

  “I thought I’d go for an early-morning hike. I hear the Holy City of Veknormai is beautiful during the summer.”

  “If you like dead people.”

  Ward licked his lips. He’d never had any trouble with the dead; it was the living who bothered him. He amended that thought. Celia was dead, even if she didn’t act it, and she gave him more trouble than he deserved.

  “I’m just doing my tourist’s duty and taking in all the sights.”

  The man leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “I’m too tired to play games. Why don’t I cut to the chase, de’Ath?”

  Ward’s stomach did more acrobatics. “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else.”

  “Hardly.” The man’s expression darkened.

  Ward forced himself to meet his gaze, all the while thinking about possible escape routes. There were none. He had a tiny window, which he supposed he could climb out, but then where? He was on the third floor, and there was no pile of animal parts below to break his fall.

  “My brother needs a doctor.”

  “There are plenty in town.”

  “So I hear.”

  The ice in his gut turn hard and heavy. Please don’t let this conversation be about surgery. But that was the only direction it could go, and it would lead to his incarceration or death. “I could recommend a few, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “You know I’m not.”

  “Well, since I’m not who you think I am, I can’t help.” Ward adjusted the rucksack on his shoulder.

  The Tracker barred his way with a thick arm. “I know I’m putting you in a situation. I also know if I ask you can’t refuse. My brother needs a surgeon.”

  “If you know who I am then you know I don’t do that anymore. I’ve been branded. I’ve served my sentence.” The brand on the back of his neck began to itch. Could he really refuse a plea for help? He’d taken the Oath: no request unanswered, any soul in need, with all of his skill. “How do I know you won’t arrest me afterward?”

  The Tracker glanced down the hall and leaned toward Ward. “My brother needs a surgeon or a necromancer.”

  A surgeon or a necromancer? “You’re a Thalonist?”

  Thalonism was a banned religion often mistaken for Habilism and its worship of Innecroestri and their black necromantic practices: false resurrections, animations, possessions—practices every political, religious, and magical council had banned, including the elders of the necromancer communities.

  The Tracker nodded, the movement almost imperceptible in the dim light.

  Thalonists, on the other hand, believed in a ritual guiding to the veil upon death and revered necromancers for their ability to maintain the balance between life and death. Most necromancers, unlike ordinary citizens, knew the only similarity between Thalonists and Habilists was the principality from which they originated.

  So he and the Tracker were both on the wrong side of the law.

  “You can see why I’ve decided to approach you.”

  “And you can see the position I’m in.”

  The Tracker grabbed the front of Ward’s shirt and pulled him to his tiptoes. “My brother needs you.”

  Ward’s collar dug into the back of his neck, and he clawed at the man’s hand.

  “I will kill you and tell the Council I caught you stealing bodies.” The Tracker shoved Ward against the doorframe. “I don’t think I’ve sharpened my blade lately. I can’t guarantee a clean beheading.”

  Ward coughed, struggling for air. The Council was sure to believe the word of a Tracker over a known criminal. Of course, if Ward was dead, it wouldn’t matter what the Grewdian Council believed. “Are threats really necessary?”

  “My brother’s life is more important than yours.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  The Tracker released his grip, and Ward slid down the wall, gasping for air. Before he could catch his breath the Tracker knelt beside him. “You will come with me.”

  Ward nodded. “Where are you staying? I’ll meet you there tomorrow night.”

  “Now.” The hiss of a blade sliding from its sheath punctuated the Tracker’s words.

  “Now is also good,” Ward said, the irony not lost on him that if he was away too long, Celia would also greet him with a drawn blade.

  FIFTEEN

  To Ward’s relief the Tracker didn’t take him to the Collegiate of the Quayestri but an inn near the docks. It was a large, three-story building with the shutters open to allow the breeze from the bay to alleviate the heat in the common room.

  They stepped through the front door, the aroma of stew and fresh bread making Ward’s stomach growl, and the hint of ale making it churn. The Tracker marched him to the stairs at the back. They climbed to the second floor, navigat
ed a maze of hallways, indicating the inn used the upper floors of the buildings that butted against it, until they reached a worn door at the end of a hall.

  The Tracker reached for the latch but didn’t open it. Instead, he leaned toward Ward.

  “If I don’t like your diagnosis, I’ll kill you.”

  Ward swallowed. So it wasn’t really a necromancer he was looking for. Fine. He pushed the Tracker’s hand aside and stepped into the room.

  Darkness engulfed him. The shutters were closed and the damp, acrid scent of vomit permeated the room. Ward sucked in a slow breath from the sides of his mouth. Celia was right. It did work. “I’ll need light.”

  The Tracker shoved past him and after a few bright sparks a tiny flame danced on the end of the wick of a stubby candle. Beside him, in the room’s only bed, lay a gaunt man, his skin gray and taut over his forehead and cheeks. His bone structure was delicate, chiseled like most of the nobility in the Union of Principalities, and his skin clung to it with little fat or muscle in between. A thin film of sweat glistened in the flickering light and pasted his shoulder-length blond hair to his skull.

  The Tracker crossed his arms, his chin raised as if daring Ward to make a wrong move.

  A calm settled over Ward, and his heart slowed. This was what he’d spent his life preparing for. From the time he learned to read, he’d sneaked the few books on medicine in Grandfather’s library to his room, reading those instead of fairy tales or prescribed readings on necromancy. In the summer, when traveling across the principalities with his family, he’d practiced herbalism under the watchful eye of his great-aunt Edeena. He’d begged his parents every day, and as soon as he was old enough, they registered him in The Olmech School of Health and Philosophy. With all of his being he believed he was born to break the Goddess’s call across the veil, not afterward as a necromancer but before, as a physician.

  He straightened his back and stepped to the edge of the bed. “Open the shutters.”

  “But...”

  “It’s high summer in Brawenal. I’m sure he, like me, would appreciate a little fresh air. If he’s so weak that he catches a chill, the Goddess has already made her decision and there’s nothing I can do.”

  The Tracker opened the shutters a crack, allowing a weak band of moonlight to fall across the sick man’s face. He groaned but did not wake.

  Ward laid the back of his hand on the man’s forehead and on either cheek. Hot, covered with sweat.

  “How long has he had the fever?”

  “It started last night.”

  “That’s rather soon to assume he needs a surgeon or a necromancer.” Ward looked for the chamber pot. It sat on the floor between the headboard and the bedside table. He took a quick sniff: vomit, not urine or feces.

  “It was a surprise seeing you at the café. Pietro’s been sick for months, and no physician’s been able to help. It’s a colicky bowel, change your diet. Drink this potion. Spice every meal with that. Once a day. Twice a day. Three different principalities.” The Tracker punched the wall, cracking a panel. “Then a few days ago he throws up. Once. The next day it’s worse.”

  Ward set his rucksack at his feet. If the other physicians said it was a colicky bowel, that was where he should start. From school he knew a colicky bowel was an imbalance in the humors, remedied by a change in diet, increased fluids, and sometimes a change of location.

  He eased the blanket and nightshirt away from the unconscious man and ran his fingers along his abdomen, finding only an old scar along his side. He couldn’t tell if the man’s gut was distended or not, and with the patient unconscious, he couldn’t tell where the pain originated. He leaned in, placing his ear on the man’s stomach, trying to determine if the borborygmus sounded normal. The rumbles seemed like every other he’d heard.

  Sweat pooled under his arms and across his back. Things were more difficult in practice than in theory. He couldn’t tell what was right and what wasn’t. He stilled the wave of panic. What were his options? He recalled a section in his surgery book where a patient complained of sudden and sharp pain on the lower right side of the abdomen and within two days took fever and died. When necropsied, it was discovered the appendix had become infected and burst, spreading poison through the patient’s body.

  But Ward’s patient had complained of pain for months.

  “What were his symptoms at the beginning?”

  “Pain that comes and goes. Constipation, which also comes and goes.” The Tracker sounded as if he’d said it too many times.

  Ward waited for more but he remained silent.

  “It does sound like a colicky bowel.”

  The Tracker placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “Remember what I said about a diagnosis I didn’t like?”

  “And obviously it’s something more serious.” Ward yanked open his rucksack and pulled out his book on surgery.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for an answer.”

  “You’ve barely looked at Pietro.”

  “He’s feverish, and has what I’m guessing is excessive weight loss. From the chamber pot by the bed, I’d say he’s vomiting on a regular basis, which means he doesn’t have the proper balance of fluids. His abdomen is without mark, as I suspect is the rest of his body, so the problem lies within. And since I can’t cut him open from neck to crotch to look, I need to narrow down the options.” He met the Tracker’s gaze. “His fever tells me time is of the essence. I am thirsty and hungry and will be able to concentrate better if both were remedied.”

  The Tracker growled and pulled his blade an inch out of its sheath so it caught the candlelight.

  Ward refused to break eye contact or reveal any sign of weakness. Even if he didn’t know what the problem was, he couldn’t let it show. It was like facing down a mountain cat. Don’t show a weakness and it won’t think of you as dinner.

  The Tracker growled, shoved his blade back into its sheath, and stormed out.

  Ward expelled the breath he’d been holding and flipped past the section on anatomy and terminology, uncertain where to look. He didn’t have the experience to deal with a situation like this. He should still be an apprentice under Professor Schlier, whose first advice would be to not find himself held at dagger-point to perform an illegal operation for an officer of the highest law. If he didn’t work out the situation with care, even if he saved the Tracker’s brother, Ward could still end up dead.

  Schlier would know how to get out of this mess.

  And his next advice would be to calm down and start at the beginning. Well, the question above all else—his future or his life—was how to save the man lying in the bed beside him. What ailment could he possibly have?

  Ward flipped a few more pages. He’d read the book more times than he could remember. There were sections on diagnostic procedure—most he’d already attempted—bone-setting, removal of foreign growths, injuries of the head, and studies of individual illnesses. All of which he’d read hundreds of times, and not a whit of it could he bring to mind.

  The door opened, making Ward jump, and the Tracker entered carrying a tray laden with a pitcher, two cups, a small loaf of bread, and two bowls wreathed with steam. Ward’s stomach growled.

  “So?” The Tracker set the tray on the small table beside the bed and elbowed Ward out of the way so he could sit.

  “There’s a great deal of information to review,” Ward said, trying to determine how to get to the food without incurring more of the Tracker’s wrath.

  The Tracker turned his back to Ward and tried to rouse his brother.

  “Even if we have narrowed it down to a colicky bowel with fever and—” A colicky bowel with fever sounded so familiar. Ward closed his eyes, ignoring his stomach, and tried to remember where he’d heard that before. The end of the book in the individual studies?

  “What?” the Tracker asked.

  Ward flipped to the final section, where the real value of the book lay. Studies of unfortunate individuals and
the course of their usually terminal illnesses and the following exploratory necropsies: woman with hard formation in her breast, man with watery breath, man with colicky bowels.

  “What?” The Tracker’s voice was dark, a definite precursor to violence.

  Ward just needed another minute.

  Complaint of pain from abdomen that came and went in waves over the period of two weeks.

  He skimmed the page. Physician’s initial diagnosis was colicky bowel and instigated a change in diet. Symptoms not alleviated. Constipation, vomiting, fever, death. The surgeon who’d performed the necropsy discovered the abdominal cavity poisoned, a hole in the small bowel edged with rotted flesh, and a hard uneven mass blocking it.

  Of course. How could he not remember? It was an exciting surgery that involved the removal of the blockage to alleviate the pressure and eliminate the risk of bursting the bowel.

  The Tracker slammed his hand down on the book, knocking it to the floor, and grabbed the front of Ward’s shirt. “What?”

  “It’s a—” He swallowed. He had to sound sure, confident. And really, the symptoms were almost identical. It fit with other colicky bowel situations where often the pain subsided after a hard stone was passed in the stool. Why couldn’t the stone get stuck, obstructing the body’s natural process? “It’s an obstructed bowel.”

  “A what?”

  “His body is unable to pass a stone.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s not important. What matters is I can attempt to remove it.”

  The Tracker narrowed his eyes. “Attempt?”

  Ward pried his shirt free. “All surgery is dangerous. The humors can become unbalanced and flesh can quickly rot, but the fever tells me your brother’s illness is at a critical stage. Without the attempt he will surely die.”

  “You say it so academically. That’s a real person lying there, not some footnote in a book.”

  Ward picked up his book and hugged it against his chest. “Death is just another state of existence.”