Dead Reign

by T. A. Pratt

  “Truly?” The Walking Death rose. “In this very city? This is fate. Unless it’s falsehood. It goes without saying, if this proves untrue, I will not just strip you of your powers, but of your flesh. Death will be a relief denied you. If you’re even mistaken, with no intent to deceive, I will not be merciful, and will still hold you accountable for wasting my time.”

  “You have nothing but time, my lord,” Ayres said. Death had promised him his reward, and Ayres no longer needed to bow and scrape. It was clear Death wanted the dagger more than he admitted. “I believe you would hold me accountable for sowing false hope.” Death narrowed his eyes, and the dark aura around him blackened. Ayres bowed again, lower this time. No need to push it. “Of course, I understand the sword is a mere bauble of no real value, and that you only wish to acquire it for sentimental reasons. Nevertheless, I am pleased my information, meager as it may be, has some value to you. I’m sure you’ll find it in Marla Mason’s possession.”

  Death shook his head. “You’ve got steel in your back and fire in your belly, old man, I’ll grant you that. Fine. You have your powers. If your information proves accurate, I’ll even let you keep them. This Marla Mason. Would you say she’s a reasonable woman? Willing to make a deal if it’s in her best interests?”

  “She’s as stubborn as a constipated mule, actually. But I’m sure you can be very persuasive.”

  Death shrugged. “Mortals are grass. She’ll bend or be mown down. Well? Are you going to raise this mummy or not?”

  “Indeed.” Ayres wasn’t sure what to do—he didn’t feel any rush of power, didn’t feel any different at all.

  “Simply speak the words, make your command,” Death said. “The dead will answer you.”

  “Ah.” Ayres cleared his throat. “Dead man, I bid you to rise.”

  The coffin began to shake. The withered mummy inside moved, its motions as alien and precise as those of a stick insect. It sat up, braced itself on the edges of the coffin, and climbed out, standing on unsteady, shriveled feet.

  “Beautiful,” Ayres murmured.

  “Beautiful tyrant,” the mummy said, voice a croak at first, but as it continued to speak, the tone became smoother, and took on a surprising resonance. “Fiend angelical. Dove-feathered raven.” It—he—shook his head, and bits of dried substance flaked from his neck, settling into the folds of his old black suit. “Was there ever a book containing such fair matter, so vilely bound?”

  Death grinned. “That’s nice. ‘Wake not a sleeping wolf. To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.’”

  The mummy turned its head, slowly, and regarded the young god. “Henry the Fourth, Act one, Scene two,” the mummy said.

  Ayres felt his newfound certainty begin to shift. “Why does this thing speak?”

  The mummy regarded him. “I am no thing, sir.” The voice was still smooth, not emerging from the body’s fleshless windpipe, but through magic. The accent was decidedly Southern. “I am John Wilkes Booth, a patriot and actor of some renown.”

  “What is this?” Ayres had caused the dead to speak before, but they always whispered, or shrieked; they did not speak as if they were alive, and this strange prodigy made him shudder.

  Death laughed. “You asked to be the greatest necromancer who ever lived. I conferred those powers on you. They’re more potent than the weak magic you once possessed. When you raise the dead now, if you’re not careful, you’ll jerk their spirits back into their bodies. As you did with this one. Farewell, Ayres. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

  “Wait—” Ayres said, but Death was gone, off into shadow. Ayres cursed and turned back to the spirit he’d unwittingly called up. “You. I’ve given you life so that you might serve me.”

  “I serve my country,” Booth said, “and my family, and my art, and my God. I do not see why I should serve you.”

  “Would you rather return to…wherever you were before?”

  “I have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound,” Booth said thoughtfully. “But the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country…” He shook his head. “I would not like to return there, no, sir.”

  “Stop quoting Shakespeare.” Ayres was suddenly tired and more than a little cranky. “I don’t even know much Shakespeare, and I can tell you’re quoting it.”

  “The bard’s words are silver and gold, sir,” Booth said. “You may call me Mr. Booth, or John, if you prefer. How may I address you?”

  “Ayres. Or Master.”

  “I call no man master, Ayres. But treat me as a gentleman, and I’ll extend you the same courtesy.”

  “This is just grand.” Ayres started to turn. He stopped. “You precede me from the room. I know what happens to people who put their backs to you.”

  “Only tyrants need fear me.” Booth stepped past Ayres, toward the door, then paused. “I thank you for retrieving me from…that place. But my gratitude will allow your discourtesy only so much latitude, sir.” He left the room.

  Booth had never even glanced at the dead man in the chalk design, Ayres noticed. Being dead must alter one’s priorities. I must be more careful when I raise the next one. Ayres wanted a servant, not a mummified roommate. Especially not a notorious racist assassin with delusions of grandeur and a tendency to spout Shakespeare without provocation. Still, a dead man with a proven willingness to shoot people in the back of the head could have his uses, Ayres supposed. He’d keep the mummy around for a while and see what opportunities presented themselves.

  “I know I say you take the warrior ascetic thing too far sometimes, Marla,” Rondeau said, strolling down the wide marble-floored hallway on their way out of the mansion. “But don’t you think hiring a manservant is a bit of an overcompensation?”

  “Shut up,” Marla muttered, keenly aware of the valet walking behind her. She didn’t like it when people walked behind her—years as a freelance mercenary made watching her back second nature—but Pelham wouldn’t walk alongside like an equal. Marla could have ordered him to walk in front of them, she supposed, but while she was no stranger to telling people what to do, telling a servant what to do was a weirdly distasteful idea. “He’s just coming along to help plan the Founders’ Ball, then I’ll send him back.”

  “Whatever you say, Lady Marla,” Rondeau said. “But your kind will be first against the wall when the revolution comes.”

  Pelham smoothly swooped around them to open the front door, and when they exited onto the front steps, he hurried down to open the back door of the Bentley, bowing as he did.

  “I ride up front, Pelham,” Marla said. “You can have the back.”

  “I…if madam insists…” He sounded doubtful.

  Marla sighed. “Don’t call me ‘madam.’”

  “Yeah,” Rondeau said. “A madam is somebody who runs a whorehouse. You have to watch out for the connotations.”

  Pelham blinked like a rabbit on his first trip out of the burrow. “Would you prefer…mistress?”

  Rondeau snorted. Marla glared at him. “Connotations again,” Rondeau said.

  “Ah,” Pelham said, clearly at a loss. “Then…ma’am?”

  “How about just ‘Ms. Mason,’” Marla said. She figured trying to get him to say “Marla” would be a lost cause.

  “Of course.” Pelham opened the passenger door for her.

  “I can open my own car door.” Pelham pretended convincingly not to hear her. She got in, and he closed the door, then climbed in back.

  Rondeau got in the driver’s seat, glanced in the rearview, and said, “Buckle up there, Pelly. If we get in a wreck and you go flying into the back of Marla’s head, she’d never forgive me.”

  “Buckle?” Pelham said faintly. Marla turned around in her seat, frowning, and watched as he began fumbling with the seat belt straps, finally getting them latched. “I am secure,” Pelham said formally.

  “This is going to be fun,” Rondeau said. “Is he going to sleep on a little cot next to your bed?”

  “Shut up,” Marla
said again, though without much heat. Rondeau was going to give her hell about this, no matter what she did. She couldn’t blame him. She’d do the same if their positions were reversed.

  Apparently satisfied with the level of mockery for now, Rondeau started the car, and the stereo blared to life, rap music pounding out of the speakers. Marla liked this music better than the stuff Rondeau played at his nightclub, but only just. Pelham made a noise of horror from the backseat, and when Marla looked over her shoulder, he was pressing his palms against his ears. Rondeau must have noticed, because he turned the music down to a tolerable level. “Sorry about that, Pelly,” he said. “That’s just how we roll around here.” He drove down the driveway and waited for the front gate to open. “So, this Founders’ Ball, do I get invited to that?” Rondeau said.

  “I guess, if you don’t piss me off too much,” Marla said.

  “How about Pelly here? Will he go, to carry the train on your evening gown?”

  “What did I just say about not pissing me off?”

  “Comment retracted.” Rondeau drove through the open gate. Glancing in his mirror, he frowned. “Hey, Marla,” he said, voice low. “Pelly’s back there all turned around in his seat. He’s practically got his nose pressed against the back window, like a sad little kid in a movie.”

  “It’s probably just sinking in that he has to work for me now.” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Just think of him as an employee, not a valet or manservant, wash all that upper-class/lower-class crap out of her head—she had money, he needed money, he’d do some work for her. That was it. It was always nice to have another useful pair of hands. And she’d be able to quit worrying about the Founders’ Ball, which was nice.

  As they approached the bridge that spanned the Balsamo River, Pelham said, “I’ve seen that bridge from my window, but never crossed it. Thank you for this opportunity, Ms. Mason.”

  “What?” She turned around.

  His eyes widened. “Apologies if I spoke out of turn. I noticed that you allowed your driver to take a familiar tone, and thought such a mode of address might please you, but I will be more respectful in the future.”

  “Her driver?” Rondeau said.

  “No, I don’t care that you talked,” Marla said. “It’s what you said. You’ve never crossed this bridge before? What, you only ever took the east bridge? This one’s closer to the estate, though.”

  “I have never crossed any bridge, Ms. Mason,” Pelham said apologetically. “I am not well traveled.”

  Marla closed her eyes for a moment. “Tell me, just how poorly traveled are you?”

  “I have never left the grounds of the estate before, Ms. Mason. I never had cause to do so.”

  Marla faced forward, sank into her seat, and moaned.

  “This is your first time outside the walls?” Rondeau said. “Oh, Pelly. What time does your shift end? You’ve got a lot of life’s little pleasures to sample, my friend, and your tour guide’s name is Rondeau.”

  “I do not yet know my schedule,” Pelham said. “But I appreciate your willingness to allow me to join your society.”

  “Phone,” Marla said, and Rondeau passed her his cell. She snapped off the rap music, then called the Chamberlain, and shouted sufficiently enough that she had to talk to only three underlings before the lady herself answered.

  “Is there a problem, Marla?”

  “This guy Pelham has never left your house!” Marla shouted. “What are you trying to do to me here? What, I’m supposed to teach him about public restrooms and how to use the bus and go to the grocery store?”

  “He has left the house,” the Chamberlain said calmly. “He’s been all over the grounds. As for teaching him things, Pelham has an excellent theoretical grounding in all the tasks a valet might be expected to do. He knows how to deal with shopkeepers and tradesmen, fear not. I believe some of the household staff did training exercises with him, starting from the time he was very young.”

  “Is this a joke? This guy’s been a prisoner?”

  “Never that. Pelham’s people have been servants of the founding families for generations. As you know, some years ago, the last scions of those families chose to leave the city to seek their fortunes elsewhere, much to the delight of myself and the ghosts I serve.”

  Marla grunted. Those spoiled rich brats had done nothing except party and dishonor their family names, and the Chamberlain had made life unpleasant for them. They all lived abroad on their trust funds now, and didn’t even visit anymore. “Yeah, so?”

  “They all took their personal servants with them. Pelham’s family has…certain symbiotic tendencies. Through training and temperament and long tradition, they’re only happy when they have someone to personally tend to. The relationships can grow quite close. But Pelham, poor Pelham, was the odd man out. He had too many brothers and sisters. When the heirs to the founding families chose their valets and lady’s maids, Pelham was left unchosen. He’s been at the house ever since, seeing no reason to leave, utterly unfulfilled, and I’ve been wondering for years how to settle him properly in an outside position. When I realized you had the makings of real aristocracy—the kind won by strength of arms and strategy, not accident of birth—I realized you’d be perfect.”

  “Me? Why not you? Gods, you’ve got dozens of servants already!”

  “Nonsense. I am a servant, Marla. Head of the servants, yes, and often the public face of the founding families, which requires me to affect a certain regal bearing on their behalf, but I never forget my true position. Besides, Pelham is more than a hired man. His connection to the one he serves is profound. He’s bonding to you even now. You’ll never find a more loyal or trustworthy employee. And, yes, he may need to adjust to the realities of the world outside a bit, but he’s been trained to cope with the unexpected, and he doesn’t bat an eyelash at magic. I’m sure he’ll work out fine.”

  “Look, you said we could break this arrangement anytime, and now you’re telling me he’s a parasite?”

  “Symbiote,” the Chamberlain said sternly. “And, yes, you could send him away, though it would tear him apart to be rejected, and I suspect he’d wind up utterly despondent, sleeping under a bridge somewhere. And he’s certainly free to leave your service whenever he chooses; it’s just highly unlikely he would ever so choose.”

  “Wonderful. I won’t forget this.”

  “It is a boon, Marla, not a treacherous gift, I assure you. You’ll see. Pelham will make your life easier in a thousand little ways. You’ll have cause to thank me.”

  “Right. I’m sure.” Marla flipped the phone closed and drummed her fingers on the dashboard.

  “Hey, Marla,” Rondeau said quietly. “The guy’s back there crying.”

  Marla sank lower in her seat. She felt like shit, but she hadn’t asked for this responsibility. Then again, she was no stranger to unwanted responsibility. She took a breath. The world was what it was. “Hey, Pelham. Sorry about all that…parasite business. I was just taken by surprise.”

  “You need never apologize to me, Ms. Mason.”

  She turned around in her seat again. “Hey. I don’t apologize all that often. Just when I actually make mistakes, which Rondeau can tell you is pretty much never.”

  “To hear her tell it anyway,” Rondeau said.

  “If you’re going to work for me, you can’t be afraid to speak up. I’m not saying I won’t smack you down occasionally, but don’t let that discourage you. I realize there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know. But you can learn. And there’s plenty of stuff you do know that I need to learn. Like how to throw a party for a hundred or so of Felport’s best and brightest and meanest and most dangerous. Think you can help me do that?”

  “Of course,” Pelham said. “I live to serve, Ms. Mason.”

  “Well, we’ll see if we can find something better for you to live for, but I guess it’s a start.”

  “Say,” Rondeau said. “Do you know anything about the care and feeding of baby goats?”

&nbs
p; Marla left Pelham and Rondeau at the club and went to take a walk. The goat was locked in the men’s room eating a potted plant and drinking from the toilets. Pelham had been reluctant to leave her side, but she convinced him that Rondeau would teach him the ropes—answering phones, the ins-and-outs of Marla’s rather free-form filing system, which people she was willing to take phone calls from, and which she’d just as soon avoid. She set off toward the esplanade, wanting to hit the center of Felport’s tourism and get a sense of the summertime commerce, and as the Market Street Market wound down in the afternoon, the esplanade was the next best thing. Fiduciary magic wasn’t her specialty—her consiglieri, Hamil, was the one who kept his finger on the pulse of the city’s economics, with a little help from the chaos magician Nicolette—but she could get a crude sense of the health of a particular sector by quietly sitting and letting the city flow through her. She’d been chief sorcerer for nearly five years, and was finally beginning to develop what her predecessor Sauvage had called city sense, the ability to expand her consciousness until the city became almost part of her own body. With some effort, she could feel spikes in crime rates like sharp pains, taste pollution like morning breath, experience economic downturns like fatigue and bad traffic like clogged sinuses. Apparently the city sense became second nature after enough years, but Marla wanted to practice, and she found positioning herself with some physical analog of the quality she wanted to explore helped her focus.

  The day was warm and lovely, and the esplanade was hopping. Most of the little shops had their doors open for the breeze, and people strolled in and out at a good pace. Marla sat down on a stone bench with a good view of the water and watched people in shorts and T-shirts stream by, kids clutching ice-cream cones, young women Rollerblading, lovers strolling arm in arm. Felport wasn’t a real hub of tourism, but it was the biggest city in this part of the state, and so a lot of people from the sticks and suburbs came to see the occasional show, eat in good restaurants, take the kids to museums or the zoo or the little amusement park and boardwalk down by the bay. Marla closed her eyes and let the shape of the city coalesce in her mind, from Ernesto’s vast junkyard in the south, then north to the green expanse of Fludd Park—gods, she hated that place, all bugs and dirt and ducks and trees—in the city’s center and up to the rabble of student housing, on past the river to Adler College with its weird sculpture garden, and then east to the Heights where the Chamberlain lived, on to the old city with its cobblestoned narrow streets and historic buildings, over to the fancy houses with bay views, then down to the south side of the river again, to the clutch of skyscrapers and high-rises downtown, over toward the old industrial sector by the docks, down to the esplanade again, where Marla sat. The city felt whole and relatively safe, no pin-pricks of interdimensional invaders, no waves of rage from some passing monster, most of the ordinaries going about their lives with the usual mixture of hope, anxiety, sadness, and joy, unaware of Marla or her kind looking out for them (and, admittedly, sometimes making a living off of them). Marla shivered with pleasure, a sensation like eating a perfect meal and being absolutely satisfied, neither under-nor overfull. Felport in early summer, before the intense heat and humidity really set in, was a wonderful place. So what if she had a party to plan? So what if she’d acquired a valet against her will? These were minor concerns. Her city was healthy. Life was good.