Death's Heretic

by James L. Sutter

  “And how are they to deliver the ransom?” Salim asked.

  “A drop-off in the Ethereal Plane, of all places.” Khoyar looked solemn. “As if we needed further proof of their abilities. Not only can they steal a soul from the Boneyard, but they expect to be able to safely retrieve their payment from the mists of that half-seen realm. Naturally, I offered to make the delivery, should Lord Anvanory’s heir elect to capitulate.”

  “Of course. How did he react?”

  “She. And furiously, as might be expected. His daughter came straight to us for consultation. She was torn between rage at the kidnappers and duty to her father, but she elected to wait and see what came of our investigation—what’s now your investigation. What’s more, she’s thrown the full wealth of the Anvanory family behind your efforts, generously covering any costs the church may incur in the process. The elixir itself is being held under heavy guard at the royal palace until a decision’s been made regarding its recipient.”

  Salim mulled this over. “You’ve already interrogated the house staff, I presume?”

  “As well as everyone who visited the manor in the two days prior. Both magically and via more conventional methods, thanks to the Lamasaran Guard.”

  “And you’ve attempted subsequent divinations?”

  “Certainly.” Khoyar spread his hands. “And not just the Church of Pharasma, either. The Anvanory estate has funded divinations from all the major temples in the city—the bankers of Abadar, the priests of the Dawnflower—with similar results. It’s clear that Faldus’s soul made it to the Boneyard, but both the murder itself and what happened after his soul reached the Outer Planes is hidden, as if the whole affair were being shielded from divine view.”

  The high priest paused to let that sink in. Between the kidnapping, the rendezvous in the Ethereal Plane, and the apparent ability to hide the whole matter from several normally omniscient deities, it was clear that whomever they were dealing with was extremely powerful. And extremely dangerous.

  “Understood,” Salim said. “Yet we may still have a chance. It’s unlikely that after all this work, the kidnapper’s going to simply throw away the soul and move on if we delay. Given time, we may uncover something, or the kidnapper may make contact again and give away his hand.”

  Khoyar nodded. Touching Salim’s shoulder, he stopped them in front of another pair of closed wooden doors set into the wall of the hallway.

  “Agreed,” he said. “But there’s one other complication.”

  “What?”

  In reply, the high priest pushed open the doors. Inside was one of the church’s many audience chambers, smaller and even better upholstered than Khoyar’s tower-top solar, hung thick with gold and other trappings that—though in theory meaningless to the members of the church—no doubt played a role in convincing the economic elite to consign their dead to the church for burial.

  In the center of the room stood a woman. She was well out of girlhood, but not so far from it that the smooth lines of youth didn’t still cling to her cheeks and brow. Her long hair, pulled back with a tortoiseshell clip, was as dark as any Garundi’s, but in contrast to Khoyar and Salim, the features beneath it were as pale as snow. Blue eyes stared out at them with the fierceness of a hawk.

  “Salim Ghadafar,” Khoyar said, making another little bow, “may I present you to Neila Anvanory, daughter of Faldus Anvanory and sole heir to all the Anvanory holdings.”

  Salim bowed himself this time, and was startled when the young woman stepped forward and offered her hand. He took it and shook, noting her firm grip.

  “A pleasure,” she said, and her voice was no aristocratic simper, but rather a dulcet whipcrack of command—a voice used to overseeing servants. “I’m told you’ll be able to handle this matter quickly.”

  “I can only promise my best,” Salim replied.

  “I ask for no more,” she said, yet her tone said that his best had better be enough.

  Salim mentally stepped back and evaluated the woman. Her clothing and jewelry, from the large gold hoops in her ears to the elegant cut of her burgundy dress, screamed of wealth, yet the solid, flat-bottomed shoes and leather purse belted around her waist bespoke a willingness to put sense above fashion. Practical, then—a noblewoman alone in a strange land save for her father, forced to regularly make arrangements for herself, albeit with the aid of a sizable fortune.

  And how must he appear to her? Salim was suddenly aware of the comparatively filthy state of his robes, the white dust of the desert bleaching their long black folds gray. He had shaved on the barge, yet already stubble was filling in the narrow lines of his beard, and his mop of black hair hung tousled down behind his ears, bearing its own desert highlights. Only the hilt of his sword, belted over the robes with a wide leather strap, remained clean, its twisted and gleaming brass kept clear of dust by his constant and unconscious touch.

  Yet she had shaken his hand, rather than bowing or curtsying as many noblewomen would have. That sort of directness was worth something. This was either going to be good, or trouble.

  “Well?” she asked after a moment, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Let’s begin.”

  “Of course, Lady,” Salim said. “I will commence my investigations at once, as soon as Khoyar has finished briefing me.”

  Neila shifted to look pointedly at Khoyar. The high priest smiled, this time with sincere pleasure, and turned to Salim.

  “As Lady Anvanory is intensely interested in resolving this problem as quickly as possible,” he said, “as well as funding all our efforts to recover her father’s spirit, she will be accompanying you in your efforts.”

  Definitely trouble, Salim decided.

  “Your concern for your father is commendable,” he said slowly. “Yet I’m afraid that will not be possible.”

  Lady Anvanory’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I assure you, it is.”

  “No, it’s not.” Salim stepped forward, moving until he was looking down at the noblewoman from his full six feet.

  “It’s impossible, Lady, because it represents a conflict of interest. You see, I’ve already begun my work. And having looked carefully at the situation, it seems that the person who stands to benefit most from Faldus Anvanory’s death would be the person to whom the sun orchid elixir would naturally—and legally—pass. I also know that the most efficient murderer is the one the victim trusts implicitly, and that bizarre situations often conceal the simplest of answers.”

  Neila Anvanory recoiled as if she had been slapped. Jaw tight and face beginning to flush, she moved forward as well, but Khoyar dexterously inserted himself between them before she could reach Salim.

  “My apologies for not briefing you fully, Salim, but I appear to have left out some key information. Lady Anvanory is not a suspect in this matter. Though our divinations have been hazy on the location of her father’s spirit, they have been exceedingly clear on that fact, and her innocence has been verified by a battery of tests from Lamasara’s governing officials. I assure you, she is merely concerned for her father’s wellbeing. And besides—” he looked apologetically at Neila “—the ransom aspect doesn’t make any sense for her. It would be a ridiculous and totally unnecessary expenditure of wealth, if she could even find accomplices with this level of magical ability. She’d be far better off having her father simply disappear, not killed where he can be resurrected. It doesn’t add up.”

  Behind Khoyar, Neila’s pretty face was still flushed red with anger, but now her eyes were wet as well.

  The high priest had a point. Pigheadedness and aristocratic entitlement aside, she was still a girl who had lost her father. There was no need to press the issue.

  “Of course,” Salim said, stepping backward. “My apologies, but thoroughness is imperative in matters like this.”

  “Of course,” Neila echoed. Salim could feel her hot eyes scouring the skin from his bones.

  “Lady Anvanory will be accompanying you,” Khoyar continued, his tone leaving no room
for argument. “You may have been called in because the church wants answers, but Lady Anvanory is underwriting the church’s services to whatever extent necessary, which in this case includes you. And it’s her right as both daughter and the person who will have to answer the kidnappers.”

  Salim sighed internally. So be it.

  “Very well,” he said. “Then unless there’s anything else I’ve not yet been apprised of, I suggest we begin with the primary witness.”

  “And who might that be?” Neila snapped.

  Salim smiled at her.

  “Why, Faldus Anvanory himself.”

  Chapter Two

  Stories from a Corpse

  Despite the heat of the day outside, the air grew rapidly chill as the three figures descended into the catacombs beneath the church. Once below ground level, the massive staircase Salim had ascended and descended earlier maintained its spiral—it was Pharasma’s symbol, after all—but the stairs themselves narrowed and ceased to be marble art pieces, instead becoming functional slabs of gray stone. The descenders spread out into a line—Khoyar in front, lighting their way with a small magical globe that floated just over his shoulder, Salim in the middle, and Neila bringing up the rear. The prospect of viewing her father’s corpse had taken the heat out of the noblewoman’s cheeks, but she moved grimly onward without a word. Salim noted it. She had steel, this one.

  After a half-dozen complete turns, corkscrewing down into the bedrock, they came to the first of the catacombs, a low-ceilinged chamber of stone that split into several passages. Though the staircase continued to spiral down, undoubtedly to deeper layers, Khoyar stepped off and led them down one of the hallways. The walls here were tiled in grim mosaics of black and gray, but Salim suspected that if he were to chip away their facings the walls would be natural stone. They were well below the level of the soil by now.

  Khoyar turned and entered a small room with several slabs, not dissimilar from the one in which Salim had slain the ghouls. Yet where that chamber had been a combination mortuary and sepulcher, the faithful of the Lady of Graves had no need to economize. The temple complex both above and below would have several embalming facilities, plus a dizzying number of tombs ranging from simple stacked burial niches to elegant repositories patterned after the Osirian pharaohs, complete with anti-looting traps only the Pharasmins knew about. This room was merely a storage chamber, the cold helping to keep the bodies fresh while they awaited interment. It had the old-iron smell of a meat locker.

  At present, the stones were empty, save one. A form wrapped in a gray linen shroud rested on the center table.

  Neila stopped at the door, breath coming fast, and Khoyar touched her shoulder briefly in reassurance, then stepped over to the table and drew back the shroud.

  Faldus Anvanory was a thin man in late middle age, his limp hair the same gray as the stone. A massive handlebar mustache dominated his gentle face, counterbalanced by a pointed beard on his chin. His cheeks were streaked with brown trails of blood. Khoyar looked to Neila, and she nodded.

  He removed the shroud completely, and the wreck of Faldus’s body was revealed. He still wore the clothes he’d died in, an outfit of bright blue and gray cut in the Taldan fashion, with ruffs at the shoulders and dark leggings. Those clothes were dark now, crusted with thick, bloody stains and hanging loose in places. Neila turned away, and Salim stepped close to examine the body.

  Faldus had not died easy. That much was clear. Salim had expected something professional—a slit throat, an arrow in the back. Faldus looked like he’d been mauled. As Salim leaned closer, the impression strengthened. Long furrows rent the flesh and left fabric hanging, and one arm had been nearly severed. Between mustache and beard, lines of mangled flesh extended his mouth all the way back to his ears. Conscious of Neila’s eyes on his back, Salim ran his fingers up the man’s neck and beneath his chin, feeling the ragged line there.

  “Removed?” he asked.

  “The whole jaw,” Khoyar confirmed. “Servants found it in a trash heap several estates to the west. My priests reattached it just enough to be functional.”

  Salim nodded. Without a jaw, the magic wouldn’t work, and any serious assassin or career criminal understood the value of a corpse that stayed mute. He stepped back.

  “Let’s have a chat,” he said.

  Khoyar looked once more at Neila, who was still standing by the door. She had remarkable control of her emotions, but behind the sculpted face, she was clearly grieving.

  “Is this truly necessary?” Khoyar asked. “My priests already interrogated the body thoroughly when it first came in, and they were unable to learn anything of use.”

  “I wasn’t here then,” Salim pointed out. “That was over a week ago?”

  Khoyar nodded.

  “Then he’s ripe for another round. Cast the spell.”

  Sighing, Khoyar stepped forward and leaned over the body. Taking his spiraled holy symbol in his hand, he pressed it to the corpse’s forehead, then drew the silver amulet slowly down the body, muttering liturgical chants. Giving Khoyar room to work, Salim stepped backward until he stood next to Neila. She said nothing to acknowledge him, merely kept her eyes on Khoyar’s ministrations, and they stood together in awkward silence for several minutes.

  At last Khoyar finished and stepped away, letting the holy symbol fall back against his chest.

  “Arise, shell of Faldus,” he intoned. “Wake and tell us of the memory of life, that we may honor you with justice.”

  For a moment there was nothing, and then a rattle began deep in the corpse’s chest, becoming a sigh that rasped through dusty lips.

  “I hear,” it breathed, barely audible. Its eyes flicked open, and it bent at the waist until it sat upright, facing them.

  “Father!” Neila cried, and started to move forward, but Salim’s outflung arm barred her way.

  “That’s not your father,” he said, voice soft. “Just his corpse. Don’t confuse the two. His spirit is still gone, but his bones may yet hold some key to its whereabouts.”

  Neila looked back and forth incredulously from Salim to her father’s corpse, then stepped back so that his arm was no longer against her chest, but she didn’t try to approach the slab again. Salim moved forward.

  “Welcome, shell of Faldus,” he said, bowing. “We have questions for you.”

  There was a pause.

  “Speak.”

  Salim glanced at Khoyar, and the man motioned for him to continue. Their questions would be limited, and Salim carefully considered his phrasing before beginning.

  “What do you remember of your murder?”

  The corpse turned its head as if looking at Salim, but its glassy eyes didn’t bother to focus.

  “I was in my study,” it said, voice still raw but beginning to take on a ghost of a Taldan accent. “Facing the door. Something struck me from behind, stabbing and tearing. My head hit the desk, and everything went dark.”

  “What do you know of your attacker, other than that it didn’t come through the door?” It was a wasteful question—too redundant—but Salim had to be sure the corpse wasn’t unintentionally holding something back due to his phrasing.

  “Nothing.”

  Well, that settled that. Salim thought hard about his next question, making sure it couldn’t be answered with a simple yes or no. The key was always to keep the corpse talking.

  “Whom would you suspect of ordering your killing?”

  The corpse’s answer was immediate. “The Harlot and the Jackal.”

  Salim turned to Khoyar. “And what the hell does that mean?”

  “I know,” Neila said, speaking up. “The Harlot and the Jackal were father’s primary competitors for the elixir—or rather, his nicknames for them. Lady Leantina Issa Jbade and the merchant Akhom Qali.”

  “I thought there were always six vials at an auction,” Salim said. He didn’t know much about the process, nor care, but everyone had heard stories of the sun orchid elixir.

 
“There are, but father couldn’t afford to go up against the wealthiest bidders. They were guaranteed to win—everything we had was banked on trying for the sixth vial. The same was true of Jbade and Qali—Father had business deals with both of them, and got along with them as well as could be expected. But he didn’t trust either.”

  Salim nodded his thanks. That made sense. He looked back to Khoyar.

  “How many more?” he asked.

  The high priest held up a finger.

  One question left. He had best make it count, or they wouldn’t be able to try again for another week—corpses could only be prevailed upon so often, or the spell would lose its potency. Salim thought hard. The silence stretched out, and finally he asked, “Aside from Jbade and Qali, who has reason to want to see you dead?”

  In response, the corpse’s lips twitched. With careful slowness, their edges curved upward, expanding into a smile that stretched until the delicate stitching at either end of the mouth tore free, splitting its cheeks and showing molars in a rictus grimace.

  “Everyone,” it said.

  Then the magic left it, and the corpse fell back on the stone table like a puppet with its strings cut. Khoyar leaned forward and closed the body’s staring eyes.

  “That could have been more helpful,” Salim muttered, keeping it low out of respect for Neila. Then, louder: “Thank you, Faldus.” He turned to the noblewoman, who was looking sadly at her father’s corpse once more.

  “I’m going to need to see the study where he was killed,” he said, “as well as speak to the household staff, and to you in particular.”

  “Yes.”

  “My priests will be happy to assist you in any way you require,” Khoyar put in. “But unless you desire to examine the body further—and I assure you that the city’s reports on that matter are thorough, and will be provided to you straightaway—I suggest that we ascend once more, and leave the dust of Faldus Anvanory to what peace it’s been granted.”

  Salim nodded and turned to follow the high priest to the door. Behind them, Neila stepped forward and touched the corpse’s lifeless hand.