Dead Reign

by T. A. Pratt

  Eventually they made their way through the clogged streets and crossed one of the iron bridges spanning the Balsamo River. Marla lived and mostly worked on the south side of the city, and they were going to the old city uptown now, to the neat, narrow streets of the original settlement on the river’s north side. It was all Felport, and the whole city belonged to her—and she to it, for that matter—but she felt out of place up in the Heights, where the great houses of Felport’s founding families stood alongside the mansions built by the nouveau riche. There were museums and art galleries there, and the Felport symphony orchestra hall, and the mayor’s mansion, all places Marla mostly avoided, preferring to get her culture in nightclubs and beer halls and the little amusement park down by the esplanade with the Ferris wheel that looked like an exotic torture device. Despite the Chamberlain’s humble origins, she was still a daunting presence, and seemed utterly at ease in exactly the situations where Marla felt most out of place. There weren’t many people on Earth capable of making Marla feel inadequate—low self-esteem was pretty much something that happened to other people—but the Chamberlain came close.

  “It won’t be so bad,” Rondeau said. He was worse at abiding a silence than Marla was. “It’s not like you’re having a seven-course meal with her or something. You don’t have to remember which fork to use. It’s just a little conversation. I’m not worried.”

  Marla snorted. “Right. That’s why you’re wearing a normal suit for once. Because you’re so unworried.” Rondeau’s taste in clothes tended toward the vintage and the strange, and his closet was full of garish zoot suits, powder-blue tuxedos, and leisure suits in eye-wrenching shades. But today he wore a conservative black suit, utterly unremarkable.

  “You blame me? The way she looks at you, it’s like her eyes are tiny lasers. And I notice you’re wearing your fancy new black cloak, Miss Pot Calling the Kettle Black.”

  “Shut up. I like this cloak. It has lots of little pockets sewn inside, and it never tries to take over my brain and make me kill innocent people like my old cloak did.” She looked out the window as the streets became narrower and more tree-lined, the shops going upscale as they headed farther north. They wound through a residential neighborhood where the houses got progressively bigger and set farther back on their lots, as black wrought-iron gates and stone walls rose up to hide the estates from prying eyes. Finally they approached the hill of the Heights, the highest point in the city, providing unobstructed river and bay views for the lucky few houses on its slopes. And the highest house, perched on the ridge, was the Chamberlain’s, a gated mansion of ancient stone surrounded by acres of meticulously landscaped grounds. It was the largest private residence in the city, and the Chamberlain lived there all alone—or so most thought. As far as her ordinary neighbors knew, the Chamberlain—Mrs. Chambers—was an intensely private, incredibly wealthy black woman in an overwhelmingly white neighborhood. There were lots of rumors about her, Marla knew—she was a mad recluse, or she ran a highly exclusive brothel, or she hosted private orgies, or she was a senator’s mistress, or, or, or. Most of the stories weren’t even close to being as weird as the truth.

  Rondeau pulled up to the front gate, and the uniformed attendant sauntered over and leaned down. “Afternoon,” Rondeau said. “Ms. Mason to see the lady of the house.”

  “She’s expected. Go on up. Just park in the driveway.”

  The barrier lifted, and Rondeau eased up the curving road to the house, pulling around a large white fountain to park in the circular driveway. He cut the engine and they sat for a moment, looking up at the house. “It’s like something out of Jeeves and Wooster,” Rondeau said at last. “Some English country house–style shit.”

  “It is,” Marla said. “One of the founders of Felport, Randall or Tennyson or something, I forget which, he got rich in the New World and decided to buy himself a lordship back home in England. Except even though he was officially Lord Such-and-such, when he got back to London, people still laughed at him behind his back and called him a jumped-up merchant, so he decided to piss them all off by shipping the big estate out of the country and reassembling it brick by brick in America. Left a big gaping hole in the middle of his newly acquired ancestral lands.”

  “Those old dudes knew how to be spiteful,” Rondeau said, with a certain amount of admiration. “Guess we better go in.”

  Marla got out of the Bentley, and Rondeau followed her up the broad steps. The front doors were enormous, carved wood, with knockers shaped like lions, and Marla was rearing back her foot to kick one in lieu of knocking when someone opened them from the inside.

  The Chamberlain stood in the entryway, beautiful as always, but Marla had never seen her like this—her cascade of dark hair tied under a kerchief, her fine gown replaced with an ordinary housedress, and inconceivably, a smudged apron. She was still wearing heels, though. “Welcome to my home, Marla.” She gestured for them to enter, frowning at Rondeau. “Your associate can wait while we discuss things.”

  Marla bristled a little, but then the Chamberlain turned to Rondeau and said, “If you head to the kitchen, I think the cook’s baking, and she may have something sweet for you.”

  “Much obliged.” Rondeau ambled off in search of pastries before Marla could object.

  The Chamberlain cocked her head. “New cloak, I see. Dashing. Does this one make you turn into a giant raven that eats the eyeballs of your enemies, or is it just for looks?”

  “I don’t need a magical cloak to eat the eyeballs of my enemies.”

  The Chamberlain smiled thinly. “I’m glad you called.” She set off deeper into the house. “For a while I was afraid your pride would keep you from asking for help.”

  Marla scowled. “I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to help.”

  The Chamberlain stopped, halfway down a hallway lined with portraits of plump dead white men, and turned, her eyebrows going up in surprise. “My dear, you’re the chief sorceress of Felport. I’m at your disposal!”

  “I’ve never been good at this double-talk bullshit.” Marla crossed her arms. “You know, saying things that sound nice, but the words have razor blades hidden in them? I’m simple. I’m direct. Five years ago you were one of the three sorcerers who voted against accepting me as chief sorcerer, even after I saved the city from Somerset. We’re not exactly allies.”

  “And what’s happened to your other opponents among the ruling sorcerers, Marla? You tricked Susan Wellstone into taking over the city of San Francisco—”

  “Tricked? The bitch tried to erase me from existence! She’s lucky I found her another city to run and didn’t behead her!”

  The Chamberlain ignored the outburst. “And Gregor was killed by his own protégé, under orders from you. And now that protégé has taken a place among our little group, and is loyal to you.”

  “Gregor joined up with an evil lunatic who tried to take over the city.” Marla forced herself to speak calmly. “He had to die. As for his protégé Nicolette being loyal to me, she’s not loyal to anything but her whims. She killed her last boss—you think that makes me trust her?”

  The Chamberlain smiled. Her teeth were even and perfectly white. “Nevertheless, your opponents have a way of reaching bad ends, or at least leaving town. Five years ago, when the matter came before us, I did not believe you were experienced enough to take on the burden of overseeing and defending the whole city, despite your success with Somerset. You have since proven yourself capable. I do, however, still find you rather unrefined. I was heartened when you called to ask for my assistance with the ball, as I believed it was a step in the right direction, showing an awareness of your shortcomings and a desire to address them. Was I mistaken?”

  Marla opened her mouth, then shut it, then said, “Look, I haven’t been pursuing some vendetta against the people who questioned my qualifications. Both Susan Wellstone and Gregor plotted against me, and they got what was coming to them—well, except Susan, may her new city fall off the continent in an earthquake,
but anyway. You’ve never plotted against me.” At least, not that Marla had ever heard about. “You keep to yourself. When I needed your help defending the city last winter, you summoned up your ghosts and did your part. I don’t have a beef with you, but you look at me like I’m a dirty little commoner, you know?”

  “You are a dirty commoner, Marla. As was I, once upon a time. Such people have their uses, of course. But I see more potential in you. You have a certain ferocious pride that could, I think, become dignity. Let me help you.” She set off down the hallway again, though Marla wasn’t sure whether they were done arguing or not.

  “Yes, okay, I need a hand throwing a fancy ball. But, I mean, fuck it, a party? What’s the point? Besides the need to appease the vanity of some overindulged ghosts?” Most ghosts were mindless repetitive shadows of themselves, but the spirits of some people retained consciousness, though they could never grow or change. The founding spirits of Felport were of the latter sort, and a powerful bunch, but Marla didn’t particularly care if they had a nice party or not.

  The Chamberlain slid open a door, revealing a huge ballroom in a state of great disarray, swarming with workers. Paint cans and ladders and scaffolding and drop cloths littered the place, and a servant on a high ladder meticulously polished the crystal chandelier. The Chamberlain took a deep breath, then turned on Marla, her eyes fierce. “Parties, Marla, are a social necessity. By the people you invite and the people you choose not to invite, you send certain messages. By speaking to some and snubbing others, you make certain agendas clear. You reinforce loyalties and show disapproval. You do business. How else do you get all of the most important people in Felport in one room without making them suspicious and putting them on their guard? Not just the major sorcerers—though we must invite them all, even the Bay Witch, even though she drips—but the powerful up-and-comers like Langford and Partridge and Beadle, and the leaders of the Honeyed Knots and the Four Tree Gang. You show off your wealth and power. You make toasts that are also promises and warnings. You give a speech and set the policy for this city. You show us your vision, and remind us why we accepted you as leader! My gods, woman, how can you not know this?”

  Marla stared. “Oh. I never thought of it that way.”

  The Chamberlain’s smile was perfect and insincere. “I thought perhaps you had not. That’s why I was so pleased when you requested my assistance. Though, yes, satisfying the ghosts of the founding families is important, too. If they’re unhappy, that unhappiness spreads through the city in waves. Citizens would riot, kill one another, destroy property. Everyone would be swept up in the frenzy. I know you think Felport is your city, and of course it is in many ways, but the founding families think this place is theirs. And if they aren’t shown the proper respect, they’ll make their displeasure known. But we can turn their demands to our advantage, too. Do you see?”

  “Yeah, I see.” Marla decided it would be best to start over. She stepped into the ballroom. “So you’re helping with the cleaning?”

  “You’re surprised? You expected me to have an army of servants doing everything, while I reclined on a couch and ate grapes, perhaps? I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, Marla, whatever you may think of me.”

  Marla grinned. “Look at you, being direct and saying exactly what you mean. I must be rubbing off on you.”

  After a moment’s consideration, the Chamberlain laughed, and it sounded genuine; at least Marla was willing to believe it was.

  “So you’re going to give me a crash course in hospitality management?”

  “Not at all. I’m far too busy. No, I’m going to give you someone who can help. I understand your last personal assistant met a bad end?”

  “Ted. Good guy. He’s missed.”

  “Then my man Pelham will be able to assist you in many capacities besides planning the Founders’ Ball, I’m sure.”

  As if responding to a secret cue, a small, serious-looking man of middle years emerged from behind a wall of drop cloths, dressed in an immaculate if unassuming suit. He bowed to the Chamberlain and Marla in turn. “Pleased to be of assistance, as always.”

  “I don’t understand,” Marla said, though she was afraid she did.

  “Pelham will be your valet, Marla. Call it a gift from me, to heal any breach between us. In the short term, he can help you plan for the party—though that is the least of his expertise. I’m sure you’ll find him an invaluable addition to your household beyond that, too.”

  “My—you want someone who’s loyal to you to be my, what, manservant?”

  “A lady’s maid would be more traditional, it’s true, but you’ve never been one to care about such arbitrary gender demarcations. As for his loyalty, it will be to you, and you alone. Pelham comes from a long line of servants, from the days of the founding families. Isn’t that right, Pelham?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “He’ll be bound to you, Marla, not me, as soon as you accept him into your service. The constraints on his family line are very clear on that. No Pelham has ever had to serve two masters.”

  Marla shook her head. “Wait, he’d be bound to me? Like, magically? No, listen, I just need somebody to help me plan a shindig, I don’t need a butler.”

  “I regret that I am not a butler, madam,” Pelham said, “though I can fulfill the duties of a butler if required.”

  “He’s a valet,” the Chamberlain said. “He’ll attend to your personal needs. Think of it as…eternal concierge service, plus a personal shopper, plus…” She was clearly groping for terms she thought Marla would understand, which annoyed Marla, because she knew perfectly well what a valet was. She’d been to the movies.

  “I get it, and it’s very generous, but I can’t accept. I wouldn’t know what to do with him.”

  The Chamberlain regarded her coolly. “Are you refusing my gift, Marla Mason?”

  Marla went very still. Gifts were serious business. Refusing a gift was a heavy insult. By the same token, sorcerers didn’t give gifts to other sorcerers without good reason. Gods, is she really trying to make up with me? Giving me a valet the way I’d give her tickets to a hockey game? “Of course not,” Marla said. “I’m just…He’d be loyal to me? And he’s not a…a slave or anything?”

  “I know your views on compulsory obligation, Marla, fear not. He is a free man, and may leave your employ if he finds you unreasonable, and you may terminate him if he proves unsatisfactory—though that’s hardly likely. You will, of course, have to pay him, and arrange for occasional time off, but he will be unable to spy on you or betray you. Such geas are laid on those of Pelham’s line at birth. Pelham, excuse us for a moment, would you?” He bowed and drew back some distance. The Chamberlain sighed. “I know having such help is unusual for you, Marla. But just think of him as a personal assistant, if you must. One who knows and understands magic, and who can keep secrets, and who will eventually learn to tend to your needs before you yourself are aware of them. I’m afraid when the last of the living ancestors of the founding families left the city, Pelham was merely a child, and he’s grown up with no one to serve, save me, and…well…” She gestured at the people cleaning and painting in the ballroom. “I have no shortage of help, and he would thrive in a more personal relationship. He could also help you navigate certain…social channels you currently find a bit difficult.”

  “Okay.” Marla surrendered. “Thank you. It’s a very generous gift.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’ll see you at the party next week. Pelham will take you to Rondeau, and then he’ll lead you out.” She turned and charged off toward a stack of paint buckets, and just like that, Pelham was back, bowing to Marla and murmuring that she should follow him.

  I can always fire him later, Marla thought, and went after him, wondering how exactly she’d become the kind of person who received a valet as a gift.

  “You’re going to raise the mummy here?” Viscarro said. “Really, I’d rather you took the thing away.”

  “Necromancy makes you nervous,
does it?” Ayres grunted, marking the floor of the room with red chalk. “Funny, I’d think you’d love the stuff, as it keeps your bones from crumbling to dust.”

  “I insist you do your business elsewhere.”

  “Bah. Marla surely has me under surveillance in the world above. Here, I’m safely out of sight. You may leave. I don’t need you here.”

  “You should treat me with more respect,” Viscarro said stiffly.

  “Bugger that. You’re dead. Now shoo. Oh, and send in the other thing I asked for.”

  Viscarro spat at his feet—a sad little gesture, as walking corpses don’t produce much in the way of saliva—and departed the storage room. It wasn’t a proper vault; there were no magical items here, just curios and curiosities that Viscarro hadn’t gotten around to selling yet.

  Including the mummy, resting on a bed of straw in a wooden crate against the far wall. The preserved corpse was of relatively recent vintage, not Egyptian, or Meso-American, or dug up from some bog on the British Isles. The body was a leathery, crumpled, shrunken thing, dressed in the ruins of a black suit, with a few strands of dark hair still stuck to the stretched skin of the skull. The eyes were partially shriveled. “Who were you, I wonder?” Ayres murmured.

  “We think that’s the mummy of John Wilkes Booth,” a tentative voice offered from the doorway.

  Ayres turned his head and regarded the newcomer, a balding, nervous-looking man holding a clipboard. “Who are you?”