Warren hunched low, ready to spring, flexing claws that could rend stone. Garrett drew the flask from his pack and silently readied himself to call forth a burst of faefire.
The three of them pressed their bodies against the damp stone of the tunnel floor and watched the black mouth of the spillway tunnel. Thin gray light sifted down through the mist from a street grate high above, dimly illuminating the chamber below. Garrett held his breath, feeling the little tickle of an impending cough at the back of his throat. His eyes bulged with the effort of holding it in, and he forced a dry swallow, buying himself a few more seconds.
Gradually, a cold, prickly feeling crept over Garrett's skin, and a sort of oppressive weight settled on his chest. He could feel the pulse pounding in his temples, and his stomach turned as if he were falling from a great height. Something unnatural was at work here.
Then he saw a slight movement in the mouth of the spillway below. He blinked twice, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. A long, pale arm stretched from the round archway of the tunnel, a man's arm, or nearly so. It was as if someone were clinging to the roof of the tunnel inside, crawling along the ceiling above the water like some great beetle.
The arm reached out, and its hand grasped the keystone of the arch with fingers splayed too far apart. At first, Garrett thought the man was wearing gloves, but he saw then that the hand itself was stained a silvery black up to its wrist. A second stained hand now grasped the lip of the arch, and the first hand reached higher still to find finger holds in the rough seams of the ancient masonry. The man's body swung into view beneath, and Garrett saw that he wore a close-fitting sleeveless black jacket, buckled around his thin chest, and a tight, leather mask covered his entire head, save for his eyes which were concealed behind a pair of thick goggles. His body swung upon his spindly arms with weird, inhuman grace, reminding Garrett of a stick insect he had once seen in Marla's pet shop, and the way his head pivoted on his neck, twisting further than it should, filled Garrett with revulsion and fear.
A racking cough erupted from Garrett's chest, and the man looked up, catching sight of their hiding place above. The green glass of his goggles flashed once in the dull light, and then he was gone, his body plummeting from the spillway into the churning swell of dark water below. Garrett saw the man's long, pale legs kick against the frothing current and then lost all sight of him.
Warren leapt from the mouth of the tunnel with a furious growl. He landed on the stone walkway below and raced on all fours in hopeless pursuit. The water was moving too fast. Garrett and Ymowyn climbed down the grimy rungs of an old iron ladder that had been mortared into the wall. Flakes of rust crumbled off in Garrett's hands as he climbed, and he paused a moment at the bottom to wipe red stains on the thighs of his robe, listening to Warren's snarls receding into the distance.
"I'm sorry," Garrett said, coughing again.
"It's not your fault, dear," Ymowyn sighed, "Honestly, I'm rather relieved that it chose flight over confrontation. I'm not entirely certain what it was, or if we could have captured it at all."
"I hope Warren's all right," Garrett said, pulling the essence flask back out of his satchel to provide a faint green light as they followed the path the ghoul had taken along the narrow walkway. The strange sensation of dread was gone, and Garrett knew somehow that the man with the black hands had made good his escape.
"I suppose Diggs was right after all," Ymowyn said, "That thing is using the tunnels below the city to move from the Upper City to the Lower, and probably out of Wythr from there."
"You think it was the traitor?" Garrett asked.
"I don't know," Ymowyn said, "It could be a spy, though I've never known the Chadiri to work with non-humans before."
"What do you think it was?"
"It looked human," Ymowyn said, "but the way it moved... Perhaps it was a vampire."
"He wasn't a vampire," Warren grumbled as he came loping back out of the shadows toward them, "He smelled human... just not right somehow. Vampires have a kind of lizardy smell to 'em, but this wasn't quite the same... Humans smell kinda meaty normally, but this guy had something else mixed in... I couldn't quite put my nose on what it was."
Garrett frowned at Warren. He slipped the essence flask back inside his satchel and pulled out his witchfire torch and lit it.
Warren scratched his jaw. "This guy smelled like his stuffing had gone rotten, but in a bad way."
Garrett's skin prickled. "You think he was undead?" Garrett asked, "I don't know of any undead that can move like that."
Lady Ymowyn shook her head. "I don't know what to think is normal in this city," she said, "You can't go to the market here without having some bogeyman from a storybook trying to sell you a basket of strawberries. How do we know this wasn't some hardworking merchant on his way home at the end of the day?"
"Why would he run then?" Warren asked.
Ymowyn gave him a smirk. "Imagine you're on your way home from a hard day at the shop, and an angry ghoul jumps at you from out of the shadows. What would you do? How do we know there even is a traitor?"
"If Uncle Raik says there's a traitor, there's a traitor," Warren said.
Ymowyn hissed and looked away.
Warren sighed. "I know you don't like him, but he saved our lives," Warren said, "Raik is on our side."
Ymowyn gave a bitter laugh. "I find that fact far from reassuring," she said, "Raikjaa is as dangerous to his friends as to his enemies." She turned and started walking back toward the rusty ladder.
"That's not fair, Ym!" Warren said, "We'd all be dead if he hadn't showed up when he did. I know he's a little creepy, but..."
Ymowyn stopped walking. "Creepy?" she said, turning to face him, "You have no idea, Warren! You don't know what he is capable of! You haven't seen the beast inside him!"
"The beast inside him?" Warren scoffed, "He's a ten foot tall wolf-man made of muscles and teeth. I saw him tear the head off a bear when I was a kid. I think I've seen the beast."
Ymowyn shook her head. "Have you ever seen him skinwalk, Warren?" she asked, "Have you seen him wear a man's face and pretend to be human?"
Warren shrugged. "Well, yeah," he said, "Those White Pack sorts use that trick all the time. It's weird, I know, but it's how they've lasted so long livin' up top around humans. They use it to sneak around and keep from gettin' caught. White Wolf magic."
"White Wolf magic?" Ymowyn chuckled, "Yes, it is a useful trick when you need to hide in a crowd. Do you think I would have survived so long in Braedshal if I didn't know a few tricks?" Lady Ymowyn put her hands over her face as though she were weeping.
"Ym, are you all right?" Warren asked.
She whispered something into her palms in a language that Garrett did not recognize.
Garrett and Warren watched in stunned silence as Ymowyn's body seemed to shimmer, her outline growing indistinct.
They gasped when she lowered her hands again.
There before them, where Ymowyn had stood a moment before, now stood the priestess Serepheni, wearing a green velvet robe. She smiled at them and spoke in Serepheni's voice.
"You see," she said, "once you've learned the trick... once you've really mastered it... you can be anyone. You can be someone's dearest friend." she walked slowly toward Warren, her hand outstretched.
Warren moved back a step, his eyes wide.
"You can be a sister, a brother... father or mother," she said, moving close and stroking Warren's whiskers, just below his ear, "... a lover."
Warren laughed nervously.
She leaned closer still, her lips almost touching Warren's as she reached back to grasp his bristly mane. "And then," she whispered, "when you are completely alone... when they accept you for what you appear to be... then... you strike!"
Warren shouted in fear as Ymowyn lunged at him, no longer wearing the illusion of Serepheni's flesh. She snarled with feral rage, Warren's throat caught between her claws and teeth.
Warren shoved her back, his paw g
oing to his throat and his eyes wide with fear. "Dogs, Ym!" he gasped.
"That's his favorite game, you see," the fox woman laughed as she danced away, "I've seen him do it. He enjoys it, dear old Uncle Raik. He loves the look in their eyes when they realize they're going to die... that the person they thought was their loved one is really a monster. It's not some trick he uses to survive... It's how he hunts!"
Garrett made the connection in his mind... something Ymowyn had said at the moon pool. "Raikjaa was with you, wasn't he?" Garrett asked, "When you saw the ghost moon."
He saw a flash of real fear in Ymowyn's eyes, her face suddenly serious. Then she looked down and smiled.
"You've found me out," she laughed, "Just another mad cultist, howling at a dead moon. Yes, Raikjaa was there... and others. Like them, I too went seeking forbidden powers. Like a fool, I dove headfirst into that nightmare... and have spent every moment since, trying to find my way back... Raikjaa though... he's still there, still drinking it in... sick on shadow and horror and craving more."
"All right," Warren said, still rubbing at the teeth-marks on his throat, "so Uncle Raik is a crazy cultist, and you hate him. I'm fine with that, I am, but what I think is really important here is that you never, ever do that again! You scared the scat out of me, Ym!"
Ymowyn lowered her head. "I'm sorry, Warren," she said. She came back and put her arms around him, flattening her ear against his furry chest. "I promise I'll never do that again, not with you." She pressed a kiss gently to his throat.
Warren smiled sheepishly. "It's fine," he said, "Let's just go find Diggs and Scupp and let 'em know about Roach Boy."
"Roach Boy?" Garrett asked.
"We gotta call that crawly guy somethin'," he said.
Garrett shrugged and fell into step beside his friends.
Chapter Three
Garrett was brewing the herbal tea that Ymowyn had given him when Uncle Tinjin came downstairs. Tom, the kitchen zombie was burning the toast, and Caleb was seated at the breakfast table, trying to twirl a butter knife between his fingers. At least that's what it seemed like he was trying to do.
Caleb moaned as the knife clattered to the table for the hundredth time, and he fumbled to pick it up again with his cold, dead fingers. Uncle Tinjin frowned at him as he took his seat at the other side of the table.
"Will your zombie be eating with us this morning?" Uncle Tinjin asked as Garrett poured a cup full of boiling water from the kettle for Uncle's tea.
"Oh, uh, no," Garrett said, "You want me to send him away?"
Tinjin raised one bushy eyebrow as he watched Caleb spin the knife completely around once before it flew wild and landed somewhere between the cupboard and the stove.
Caleb groaned and rose slowly to his feet, shambling after the lost utensil.
"No," Tinjin said, "I think I'm rather enjoying the spectacle. Did you teach him to do that?"
"No," Garrett said, setting Uncle's teacup down on the table before him, "I think he's just trying to remember how to do it. Some thief trick he learned back when he was alive, I guess."
"Perhaps we should lock up the silver," Uncle said with a smile as he scooped a little mound of sugar from the bowl into his cup.
Garrett frowned. "Caleb wouldn't steal from us," he said.
"What makes you so certain?" Tinjin asked. He watched the former cutpurse stoop to retrieve the butter knife from the kitchen floor.
Garrett shrugged. "Caleb's my friend," he said.
Uncle Tinjin gave him a sad smile. His eyes fell. "Garrett..." he said.
"Yeah?"
Tinjin sighed and shook his head. "You're right, boy... we must trust our friends."
Garrett smiled and then coughed.
"Are you still feeling ill?" Uncle Tinjin asked.
"A little," Garrett admitted, "but I've been drinking the stuff that Lady Ymowyn gave me, and I feel a lot better." He lifted his own cup and took a sip of the bitter concoction as he joined his uncle at the table. Garrett pulled a face and then reached for the sugar bowl.
"If that doesn't work, you could ask your ghost friend for some more of that wertroot that she gave me for my cough," Tinjin said, "It worked wonders for me."
"Yeah," Garrett said. He didn't want to think about Annalien.
“How long were you standing out in the rain on the rooftop that you caught such a cold?” Tinjin asked.
“Not that long,” Garrett mumbled. He had not told Tinjin about the journey into the caverns beneath the city to find the Songreaver’s Tomb. Likewise, he had not mentioned how he had freed Lampwicke from her cage with the power of the Breaking Word. After all, Uncle Tinjin would want to know the details of how he had come to possess the power of the Word, and Garrett had still not been able to recall that himself. Every time he sat down to think about it, it was like pushing against a thick, black wall inside his mind. The more he tried to remember what had happened, the more frustrated he became, and then something always came along to distract him from the thought of it.
Uncle Tinjin narrowed his eyes. "That reminds me... when are you planning on going back to the Temple?" he asked.
Garrett shook his head. "Matron Shelbie told me to take the rest of the month off," he said, "She saw me cough when I was talking to Banden and sent me home. She said she didn't want me fouling the place up with my swamp plague."
Tinjin snorted. "Just as well," he said, "I still intend to have words with Max when he returns about getting you mixed up with the worm cult."
"Have you heard any news from Max?" Garrett asked.
Uncle took a sip from his cup and sat back in his chair. "Cenick has withdrawn his troops to the south, out of Astorran territory," he said, "but his diversion did buy Max enough time to make it through to Weslae in the north."
"He's cut off?" Garrett asked, concern for his friend evident in his voice.
Uncle shook his head. "He doesn't see it that way, of course," Tinjin said, "He's running amok inside Chadiri territory now, and he loves it. Remember that Weslae was his home. I don't think any of us could have held him back if we tried. In any case, the Chadiri have yet to mass any sort of real counterattack against Max's forces or against our armies in the south."
"Are they afraid of us?" Garrett asked.
Tinjin shook his head. "Fear of the enemy is considered a mortal sin to the Chadiri. They've never shown the slightest hesitation to meet anyone in battle before. Something very strange is going on here."
"What about the dragon?"
"No one has seen the dragon or the dragon lord since his defeat in the swamp," Tinjin said, "The rumor is that he was recalled home to answer for his failure. I suppose that it may be too much to hope for, but our greatest ally in this war may yet be the enemy's own fanaticism."
"You think we might win the war?" Garrett asked.
Tinjin smiled. "Garrett," he said, "when you've studied history for as long as I have, you come to realize that conflicts such as this can often last well beyond the lifetimes of those who fight them. You and I are just as likely to still be facing the Chadiri as undead foot soldiers, commanded by some young necromancer a hundred years from now."
Garrett's face fell.
"You can't pin your hopes on an easy victory," Tinjin sighed, "Very few things in life are easy. Some things, however, are worth fighting for, and it is our privilege to enjoy them while we may."
"Speaking of which," he added, "are you going to see Marla again tonight?"
"Yeah," Garrett said, "We're supposed to see some sort of play at the vampire embassy."
"What are you going to wear?" Uncle Tinjin asked.
"I dunno," Garrett said, "I think I have a nice robe that's pretty clean."
Uncle Tinjin frowned. He tore off a bite of blackened toast and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. Then he swallowed and rose from his seat with a scrape of chair legs on the wooden floor. "Garrett," he said, "I think it is time that I introduced you to my tailor."
*******
"The F
oreign District?" Garrett asked as Uncle Tinjin made an unexpected turn down Braelan Street, "I thought we were going to the Market?"
"Master Jannis caters to more exotic tastes," Uncle Tinjin said.
Garrett followed along behind his uncle as they wormed their way between two rough-hewn ox carts parked in the middle of the lane. The two necromancers nodded in greeting at the troll cart drivers who were discussing an impromptu trade, bartering cabbages for furs.
"I know a tailor named Marigold," Garrett said, "His shop isn't too far from Queensgarden. He's the one who bought Caleb at the auction."
"A human?" Uncle asked.
"Yeah."
"Perhaps we'll visit him when we have more time," Uncle Tinjin said, "but, on such short notice, we must depend on Master Jannis's alacrity."
"What does that mean?" Garrett asked.
"Hmn? Oh, alacrity means that he works quickly," Uncle said, "You'll see what I mean when you meet him."
"Oh," Garrett said.
Garrett and Uncle Tinjin stepped to the side of the lane to allow a party of satyrs in bright yellow robes to pass. They wore gold-trimmed headdresses to cover their horns. Uncle bowed slightly toward them as they clopped past on their polished black hooves. "Vella no-durain," he greeted them, and they, delighted, returned the blessing.
Garrett's thoughts wandered back to Mister Marigold. "I've been wanting to ask you something," he said as they continued toward the Foreign District.
"Yes?"
"How could a normal person like Mister Marigold control a zombie that wasn't made for him?" Garrett asked.
"A normal person?" Uncle Tinjin chuckled.
"Well, you know, a plain, ordinary person," Garrett said, "one who doesn't use magic."
Uncle Tinjin stopped walking.
Garrett was suddenly afraid that he had said something wrong, but Uncle was smiling when he looked at him.
"Garrett," he said, "as long as I have lived, I have yet to meet a plain, ordinary person. The only difference between myself and Mister Marigold is that he works in cloth and thread, and I... well I use slightly different materials."
"Yeah, but... you know what I mean," Garrett protested.
The Frostwoven Crown (Book 4) Page 2