Cenick ran home, returning with a pair of zombies, carrying a rolled bundle of cloth between them.
Max showed up a bit later with four zombies, carrying two large canvas rolls.
Uncle Tinjin sat in his parlor and endured it all with a benevolent smile, letting the young men have the run of the dining room as they arranged it to their liking. The heavy doors served to temper the noise of their arguments, though it did little to muffle Mrs. Nash's scream of horror and the crash of a serving platter hitting the floor.
Uncle Tinjin leaned forward and frowned. He turned to Garrett and said, "Perhaps you'd better..."
"Nothing wrong!" Max said, poking his head out through the dining room doors, "Just a little... not a problem."
The door closed on Mrs. Nash's angry voice, sputtering out what Garrett could only assume were Fraelan curses.
Uncle Tinjin sighed and sagged back into his chair.
At last the doors opened again, and a grinning Max Zara called for Garrett and Uncle Tinjin to join them in the dining room.
The best silver lay out on the table, surrounding Mrs. Nash's food. A place had been set for Uncle at the head of the table, and, along the sides, for Garrett, Max, and Cenick. Two more empty plates lay in front of the two canvas bundles that Max had brought, both of which now sat, propped upright in chairs at the table.
Across the far wall, bound between two witchfire sconces, hung the banner of the Chadiri Raven Legion, which Cenick had taken in the Battle of Taelish.
"Welcome home, Uncle!" Max said.
Cenick inclined his head with a smile.
Uncle Tinjin stood in the doorway, taking it in, for a moment. "Is that the banner that flew above the fall of Jastaa?" he asked.
Cenick nodded. "The Blackbird flies no more," he said.
Uncle Tinjin's eyes fell, and then he nodded, with a sad sort of smile. "Well done, boys... well done."
Cenick shared a triumphant grin with Max.
"So, why are their two dead men sitting down for dinner with us?" Tinjin asked, indicating the two canvas bundles with a wave of his hand.
Max blushed and chuckled softly. "Well, Uncle," he said, "Cenick and I will be leaving for the war again soon, and it troubled us to think of how much you'll miss us."
Cenick rolled his eyes.
Tinjin stared at Max, waiting for him to come to the point.
"Ah... so we thought we would give you a little something to help you remember us." Max moved to stand behind the canvas bundle nearest him and waved for Cenick to do the same with his.
Max pulled the canvas from the object in the chair with a flourish, coughing at the little cloud of dust he raised in the process. Cenick removed his object's covering a bit more carefully.
There, each in its own chair, sat two desiccated bodies, dressed in the purple robes of necromancers. The one beside Max wore a little golden crown, perched diagonally across its forehead. The one nearest Cenick had swirling black lines painted onto its withered face and a ridiculously large costume dagger tucked into its belt.
Cenick scoffed loudly and yanked the garish dagger from the dead man's belt, glaring at Max.
"Very amusing," Uncle Tinjin said, "At least things will be a bit quieter with them around."
"I wouldn't count on that," Cenick said.
Max chuckled.
"Explain," Uncle sighed.
Max pulled a small vial of essence from his pocket and poured a few drops of the glowing green liquid out into the palm of his hand. He lifted it carefully to his lips and whispered something. Then he placed his palm against his throat and smiled.
Garrett jumped a little when the body wearing the crown suddenly swiveled its head around to look at Uncle Tinjin. "Good Evening, Uncle," the dead man croaked. Its voice sounded faintly like Max's, but distorted and weak.
Max raised his eyebrows and nodded at Cenick.
Cenick pulled a similar vial from his own pocket and repeated the trick, causing his own zombie to rattle out, "Max thinks himself rather clever."
Uncle Tinjin laughed. "I take it this is your invention, Max?" he said.
Max beamed. "Just a little something I've been working on for a while. I call them proxyliches."
"What is their range?" Uncle Tinjin asked.
Max shrugged. "No idea," he admitted, "This will be their first test. I'm hoping we will be able to use them to communicate from the field with you here."
"A one-way communication?" Uncle asked.
Max grinned, reaching into his pocket again and pulling out something small and polished white. "Once we've attuned your voice to this, you will be able to speak with us as well," Max said.
Uncle Tinjin narrowed his eyes. "What is that?" he asked.
Max stepped forward, holding it out for Uncle and Garrett to see. It was a tiny little skull, about the size of a large egg.
"That's not a squirrel," Uncle said, clearing his throat with a little cough.
"Grumling," Max answered.
"You killed a grumling?" Cenick said, his face contorted in disgust.
"No! No!" Max said, "I would never... It's just that I happened to be out in the forest one day and I came across this tiny little churchyard with these dainty little headstones, and... Well, we are necromancers, are we not?"
Cenick shook his head.
"What's a grumling?" Garrett asked.
"Listen," Max said, "it's not important where I got it, I just needed a sentient being's skull for the attunement to work, and this seemed the most... portable."
"And we will be able to communicate with one another from a distance, as though we were together in the same room?" Uncle Tinjin said.
"Exactly!" Max said.
"Very good work," Tinjin said, "I'm proud of you. I'm proud of all of you." He raised his arms and gestured for them to step closer, hugging them each in turn.
"It's good to have you back, Uncle," Max said.
"It's good to be home," Tinjin answered.
Chapter Fourteen
"Good Morning, Uncle," Garrett said as Tinjin shuffled into the kitchen wearing one of his most ornate ceremonial robes and sat down across from him at the table.
He saw the question in Garrett's eyes and frowned. "I still haven't been able to find all my clothes," he said.
"I'll check the stuff in the carriage house again after breakfast," Garrett said, "Oh, and the carriage should be back sometime today. Cenick was having it repainted black."
Uncle looked confused. "Repainted?"
Garrett nodded. "Whoever bought it at the auction painted it a different color."
"What color?"
"Lavender," Garrett said.
Uncle Tinjin shrugged. "It might have been a nice change," he said, "Though, I suppose, black does go better with the skulls."
"Uh..." Garrett said.
"What?"
"They had all the skulls on it replaced," Garrett said.
"With what?" Uncle asked, taking a sip of his morning tea.
"Little naked babies with bird wings," Garrett said.
Uncle Tinjin snorted into his cup.
"I think Cenick was gonna have those removed," Garrett said, "but I'm not really sure about that."
Tom the kitchen zombie shuffled over to the table and laid a plate of charred bacon and blackened toast in front of Uncle Tinjin. Tinjin started to thank him and then stared, wordlessly at the bright blue apron with yellow flowers that Tom was wearing.
"I'll find something else for him," Garrett said.
Uncle Tinjin raised his bushy eyebrows and turned his attention back to his breakfast.
"How are you feeling today?" Garrett asked.
Tinjin cleared his throat experimentally. "Quite well, actually," he said, "I shall have to write a letter of thanks to your ghostly friend."
"I don't think she could read it," Garrett said.
"My Elvish is a bit rusty, but..."
"I mean, how would she hold it to read it?" Garrett asked.
"You can
read it to her," Tinjin said.
"I can't read Elvish!" Garrett protested. Too late, he saw the little smile at the corner of Tinjin's lips.
"Then this shall be..."
"...an excellent learning opportunity," Garrett completed the sentence for him.
"Exactly," Tinjin said.
Garrett groaned and prodded glumly at his bacon. "Do you think the ghouls were right about there being a traitor?" he asked, anxious to change the subject.
Tinjin shrugged. "It isn't like the Chadiri to use spies, but it makes sense," he said, "We have to assume that anything we do in the city could be observed and reported to the enemy."
"But, what if..." Garrett began when a knock at the door cut him off.
Uncle Tinjin stood up, wiped the crumbs from his robe and pulled the sharply peaked cowl of his dress robe low over his eyes. Garrett did the same with his hood. Uncle insisted on making a proper impression on unexpected callers.
They walked together to the entryway and answered the front door.
A young man in a yellow doublet stood at the door. He wore a floppy hat with an enormous white feather plume and an expression of affected boredom. "May I speak with the necromancer?" he asked.
Garrett looked up at his uncle.
"You may speak," Uncle Tinjin said.
"You are a necromancer?" the young man said.
Uncle Tinjin frowned. Garrett saw a sharp retort playing on the old man's lips, but he seemed to think better of it and answered only, "Yes, I am the necromancer."
"Lord Ignasio would commission your services in a matter of gravest import," the young man said.
Uncle Tinjin sighed. He looked past the young man in yellow to where a closed coach, gilded entirely in gold leaf, waited on the street. Long black streamers hung at its corners and covered its windows. Likewise, the four white horses that drew the carriage had been draped with black sashes, as was the coachman. The page as well wore a band of black silk around his upper arm.
"I take it that your master has lost someone dear to him?" Uncle Tinjin asked.
"Yes, of a sort," the page answered.
"Of a sort?"
"His dog, sir," the page whispered, "He loved it a great deal."
Uncle Tinjin let out a long, slow breath. "I'm sorry," he said, at last, "I cannot help him."
The page blinked and stammered, "But, it's what you do, is it not... raise the dead?"
"No!" Uncle said, "I do not raise the dead. I animate dead tissue and give it a semblance of life. Your master's dog is gone, and nothing in my power will bring it back. Let him mourn his loss and move on."
"But, sir," the page said, growing flustered, "You have to help him. It's your job!"
Uncle's eyes went hard. "I assure you, sir, I do not, and it is not," he said, "Garrett, the door, if you please."
Garrett shrugged and closed the door in the face of the sputtering page.
They made it as far as the breakfast table again when a frantic pounding sounded from the front door.
Uncle Tinjin grabbed a canister of essence from the shelf on his way to the door, muttering something about a lesson in manners. Garrett followed close behind, curious to see what would happen.
Uncle Tinjin's hand reached for the door when he suddenly froze.
"Please!" a frail voice cried from beyond the door, "Please... you have to help me."
Uncle's hand pulled back away from the door.
"I know you can do something," the man beyond the door wept, "I just can't let her go like this... Please, you have to be able to do... something."
Uncle Tinjin's hand closed into a trembling fist then fell to his side. Garrett couldn't see his face beneath the cowl, but the anger in the set of his shoulders drained away.
Tinjin set the canister on the table beside the door and stood with his hands at his sides and head bowed.
"Please," Lord Ignasio begged, "I need your help... please. I know you can help her."
Tinjin cleared his throat and wrenched the door open.
A white-haired man in a yellow coat stood on the landing, his face streaked with tears. He carried a small bundle of blue cloth in one arm. "Please help her," he sobbed.
Uncle Tinjin reached out and put his arm around the old man, guiding him in through the doorway. "Come inside," Tinjin said, "Let us talk."
Garrett closed the door behind them and followed as Tinjin led the man into the parlor and bade him sit in a chair. Tinjin dragged another chair up beside it and sat down as well. Garrett did his best to remain unnoticed in the shadowy corner of the room.
"She was so unwell last night after supper," Lord Ignasio said, gently patting the bundle of cloth that he held to his chest, "I thought it was just a tummy-ache, but... this morning..." He began to weep again.
"Let me see her," Uncle Tinjin said.
Lord Ignasio held out the bundle, his hands trembling.
Uncle Tinjin pulled back the corner of the blue blanket to reveal a little tuft of black and white fur. He smiled sadly as he passed his fingers over the little animal's neck and face. "She was a beautiful little dog," he said, "What was her name?"
"Her name is Branni," Lord Ignasio said.
Uncle folded the blanket closed again and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "but there isn't any way to bring Branni back. You must let her go."
The old man looked at the floor. "No," he said, "I can't accept that. If it is a question of money..."
"No," Tinjin said, "it isn't about money. I don't know what you've heard about necromancers, but we simply do not have the power to bring back your loved ones. Remember who she was and be happy in that, but you must let her go."
"But I've seen the dead walk again," Ignasio protested, "I know you have the power!"
"I can only cause the body to move again," Tinjin said, "to pretend at life, but it would not be Branni, it would only be her body. Everything that made her the dog you loved is already gone, her personality, her compassion, her love for you in return... I cannot bring that back."
"But it's been done before," Lord Ignasio said, "When Lord Charington's wife fell ill and died, a necromancer helped her. They say she can even dance again."
"What?" Uncle Tinjin said.
"It's true!" Lord Ignasio continued, "She looks as hale and rosy as her wedding day, or so I'm told."
"What necromancer did this?" Tinjin asked.
Lord Ignasio thought for a moment. "Martin? No, something like that."
"Marsten?" Uncle Tinjin said, his voice flat and cold.
"Yes! That's the one!" Lord Ignasio said, "They say he has the power to help those in need. I would have sought him out first, but you came so highly recommended."
Uncle Tinjin dragged the cowl from off his head and ran his fingers through his thin hair. "Marsten is here, in Wythr?" he asked.
"Yes, or so I've heard," Lord Ignasio said, "Should I seek out his services instead?"
Anger flashed in Tinjin's eyes but quickly faded. "I swear to you," he said, "That nothing that I, or any other necromancer can do will ever truly bring your Branni back to you."
Lord Ignasio looked down at the little cloth-wrapped bundle. He said nothing for a long while. A single tear fell upon the blue cloth in his hands. "I will accept anything that reminds me of how she was," he whispered, "even if it is only a lie."
"It will be a lie, you know that, don't you?" Tinjin asked.
Lord Ignasio nodded, a tear running down his cheek.
Uncle Tinjin got to his feet. "Give her to me," he said.
The old man hesitated a moment and then softly kissed the little bundle in his hands before surrendering it to the necromancer.
Uncle Tinjin bowed his head and walked out into the hall with Branni's body in his arms.
Garrett started to follow, but Uncle shook his head. Garrett watched his uncle walk to the end of the hallway, but, rather than taking the stairs down to the laboratory, he turned and disappeared into the study, shutting the door behind him. Garrett peered
around the corner to see the flask of essence still sitting on the table by the front door.
"Is something wrong?" Lord Ignasio asked.
"Huh?" Garrett said, "Oh, no. It's just... nothing."
The old man dried his eyes and managed a thin smile. "I know it must seem awfully foolish to you... getting so attached to an animal."
"No," Garrett said, "I understand, really."
"Do you have any pets?" Lord Ignasio asked.
"I have a fairy... or I did," Garrett said, "but they sold her in an auction, and I haven't been able to find out who bought her."
"Oh, yes, terrible mistake that auction," Lord Ignasio said, "Of course, you must understand that we thought you were all dead. Otherwise, we would have never.... you know." He sighed. "There was this lovely collection of wood carvings, but I was outbid by that brewer chap..."
Garrett smiled politely and rocked back and forth on his heels.
"Wait now," Lord Ignasio said, "You say your fairy went to auction?"
"Yes," Garrett said, feeling a sudden flicker of hope within.
"I remember it now. There was a fairy. Went for quite a lot, as I recall," Lord Ignasio said.
"Where did she go?" Garrett gasped.
"Ah... to that Zhadeen fellow," Lord Ignasio said.
"Zhadeen?" Garrett asked, his heart sinking, "From Zhad?"
"Yes, his name is Chaille."
Garrett felt sick to his stomach. "Do you know where I can find them? Do you think they've left the city yet?"
Lord Ignasio laughed. "Don't worry, boy," he said, "I'm certain that Ambassador Chaille is still at the embassy. He never leaves, except for parties... and auctions, I suppose."
"Thank you!" Garrett said. It felt as though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. He wanted to ask more, but the door to Uncle's study creaked open, and then something extraordinary happened.
A little black and white dog ran down the hall and skittered around the corner, her paws slipping on the hardwood floor. With an excited bark, she leapt into Lord Ignasio's arms.
The old man broke down in tears, hugging the little dog to his chest as she licked his face and wagged her tail. Garrett watched in disbelief, unable to speak.
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