The Enterprise of Death

by Jesse Bullington

  “Get fucked,” said Awa, finding one with a little slosh to it.

  “Maybe I will. Merritt’s offered me means if I want out of this game.”

  “Yeah, marry Roast Beefy and have his calves,” said Awa, tilting the bottle back and disappointed to find wine instead of stronger stuff. The Englishman no longer bothered her, much as he tried whenever they crossed paths in the tavern. Awa and Chloé had been fighting more than usual, however, about this and that and the other, and though Awa could read all the signs she paddled harder into the brewing storm. “I don’t care what you fucking do, you dizzy slut.”

  “All right then,” said Chloé, and up snapped the trap, and down went the ladder, and out went Chloé. Awa lay back on the bed, her heart pounding, the wind whistling outside, and tried to stop herself from shivering. He was coming to get her, right now he was out there, bobbing on the breeze, smacking his spectral lips, getting his affairs in order. Fuck that, and fuck …

  Awa sat up with a start, and now it was dark in the room, very dark. The dream was running, weaving away from her, but she clung to the edge of it, and drew her legs up to her chest. She had not so much as thought about her mother in years, certainly could not remember her face, or the sound of her voice, or all the specifics that had been so vivid moments before, and she set to work before she found herself downstairs opening a bottle.

  It had never occurred to Awa before, not once, and even as she splashed water in her face, trying to think straight, the absurdity of it gave her a chuckle. Blood was not enough; she needed a skull to call them back, and of course her blood was not the same even if it had been sufficient … but what was the harm? She casually cut into her forearm, not too deep, just enough, and then daubed the blood in a circle on the floor, then drew a second circle beside it. She let a bit more blood run off her elbow into a pool inside this second ring, and then she sat cross-legged in the first circle. Without bothering to stanch the wound, Awa focused intently on her dream, on the sound of the voice, on the appearance, on the smell.

  She had never before tried to call back a spirit without a body, had not tried to call back any kind of spirit in years, but almost at once she felt its arrival. The circles of blood were bubbling, burning, the stink like scorched hair only sweeter, sharper, and a column of smoke rose from the puddle of blood in the second, empty circle. The shape was indistinct, swirling, and the voice was a strange warble, closer to an insect’s than a person’s, yet Awa was sure she had succeeded, and the pleasure at this victory was only surpassed by the pleasure of seeing her mother again, no matter how dimly.

  “I … I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” said Awa, but the spirit could not answer in any tongue that Awa knew. So they simply stared at one another for as long as the blood smoked, and then the woman began to fade, and then she was gone and Awa was alone.

  “I will see you again,” Awa told the air, and the certainty of that decision rocked her to her bones, the folly of what she had been doing, of the time she had squandered, no longer important. There was time, there had to be; she would not hide in a garret, drunk and slobbering, until he arrived and ended her, until he swallowed her into oblivion. Fuck that, and fuck him.

  She must have been laughing or crying, for each bed she passed on the third floor went quiet, and then she had gained the stair, banging on Monique’s door until it swung open. Awa pushed the pistol away as she barged in, Monique cursing as she stepped back and removed the sizzling matchcord she had almost used to fire the gun into her friend’s face. A newer whore was sitting up in Monique’s bed, her open mouth growing wider as Awa approached her.

  “—fuck?!”

  “Out, please.” Awa ignored Monique, addressing the harlot. “I need to discuss some life-and-death business with the lady.”

  “Mo?” The whore looked over Awa’s shoulder, and whatever she saw encouraged her to hop quickly out of bed, the sheet wrapped around her ample form.

  “Wait in the hall, I don’t wanna go an’ find ya,” Monique was telling the girl as Awa went to the table and picked up a half-full mug of wine. Then the door shut and they were alone. “Life-an’-death it better fuckin be, Awa, I was—”

  “I’m leaving,” said Awa, emptying the cup. “Now. Apologies for not giving you more notice, but time’s a fickle bitch, yeah?”

  “That she is.” Monique’s wide shoulders slumped and she pulled her robe tighter around her. “An’ she ain’t the only one, apparently. If you’ve been fightin with that mink of yours again—”

  “You know you mean minx, right?”

  “Mink’s soft an’ pretty an’ bites if ya ain’t careful, an’ I can’t say what the fuck a minx is, so no, I mean fuckin mink. Rhymes with pink. But point is, ya been yellin again?”

  “Monique.” Awa smiled, knowing she never would have made so happy a home without the madam’s help. “You’ve been a grand friend, grand, but I’m away, and that’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” Awa poured another cup from the bottle, handed it to Monique, and hefted the bottle to her own lips. “Away.”

  “Why? Where’re ya goin? What’s so fuckin urgent?”

  “Better not to know.” Awa winked, tugging her ear. “Witch business.”

  “Ah.” Monique set her gun on the table and swished the mug in her hand. “This witch business might allow ya ta pop in from time ta time, let us know you’re well?”

  “I don’t know,” said Awa. “I very much hope so.”

  “Me too,” said Monique, putting the wine down beside her gun. “Me too, little sister.”

  They stood facing each other for a time, and then Monique turned and went to her trunk. She unlocked it with a key she kept on a necklace around her bull neck and removed a purse. She started to untie it but then thought better of it and tossed it to Awa. The necromancer caught the pouch, the weight of the coins stinging her palm.

  “Takin that prime mink with ya?” Monique was perfectly lousy at faking a smile. “If she stayed behind I’d ’old a brighter ’ope of ya comin back.”

  “I don’t know,” said Awa, the thought she had kept at bay now barking in her face. “I hope so, but she’s a free woman.”

  “Aren’t we fuckin all,” said Monique, her smile becoming more genuine.

  “Oh! Oh, Monique, I have something for you—but you have to make me a promise, alright?” Awa had set down the satchel she had hastily packed with the portrait of Chloé and all her other treasures. She took out the hawthorn box as Monique lit a second candle from the nub burning on the table. “Now, your word, Monique!”

  “My word, right enough,” said Monique. “I’ll do as ya wish … but what’re those, rocks?”

  “Salamander eggs,” said Awa. “I’m going to keep one in case I need it, but the other five are yours, so long as you promise to let them go when you’re done with them.”

  “Eggs?” Monique looked suspiciously at them, perhaps worried they were about to hatch. “What do I do with’em?”

  “Whatever you wish. You’re smarter than you let on.”

  “That’s a little outta order!”

  “Listen, when you’re done with them, or if you don’t find them useful, just go out to the woods, and build up a big pile of logs, and put them all in the middle. Then let them go.”

  “Riiiiiight.” Monique was giving Awa a strange look, so Awa hurriedly went on.

  “They start fires. Their mother whispers the word for fire to them, and they immolate themselves, but if there’s no tinder atop them they just go out again before they hatch. They need a mother to build a nest for them to burn up as they hatch, to help them leave their eggs. I don’t know how many years they’ve been waiting for someone to help them hatch, and I was going to, but I owe you so much, and—”

  “What in fuck, Awa? Really? I think you’ve maybe been drinkin a bit—”

  “Watch,” said Awa firmly, dropping one of the eggs onto the metal plate the candles were burning on. “Lean in, lean i
n … fire.”

  The round stone flashed white-hot, the brilliance making their eyes water, and almost at once the two candles on the plate toppled over, their bases melted to liquid in an instant. Already the little stone was extinguished, a thread of black smoke rising up from it, and Monique stumbled backwards away from the table, the room going dark as the fallen candles went out. By the time Monique relit the candles Awa had repacked her things, including the one salamander egg she was keeping for herself.

  “Just focus on the one you want to light, focus and address it like you were telling someone something instead of addressing a room, and it’ll light right up. But when you’re done build them a nest, and let them go. Right?”

  “Right, Awa, right,” said Monique, staring at the box. “Just say … fire ?” Monique whispered the last word, and Awa smiled.

  “Perfect. Take care of them, Mo, and take care of yourself.” Awa shouldered her bag, eager to be off.

  “Aye, an’ you. Fill your bag from the larder, an’ all the stern-water you want, an’, an’, fuck, I dunno, be careful?”

  “Of course!”

  “Will you, er, are you seein Manuel anytime soon?”

  “I …” Everything had been happening so quickly that she had not thought about it. “I’d like to, very much, but I don’t know. If I don’t, don’t get to see him, you’ll tell him that I love him, won’t you?”

  “What?!”

  “Tell him that I love him.” Awa nodded sadly, realizing she might well never see Monique again, either. “And I love you, Monique. Be happy.”

  “I—” Awa threw her arms around the giantess, who quieted at her embrace, and they held each other tightly for a time, neither speaking. Then Awa sighed and released Monique, each wiping their cheeks as they straightened up.

  “She’s asleep.” Awa winked at Monique as she opened the door and saw the woman she had kicked out dozing on the floor.

  “Fuck me.” Monique frowned. “Forgot about’er.”

  “Goodbye, Monique,” said Awa, giving her a peck on the cheek, and then the necromancer disappeared down the dark hallway.

  The only ones awake in the tavern were Dario, Merritt, and Chloé, who sat drinking at a table. Awa strode directly up to the trio, who had quieted at her arrival on the stair, and informed Dario she would be taking food and drink. She set to packing rations while he scuttled upstairs to clear it with Monique, and then she turned to Chloé.

  “I’m off to find something I should have gone after a long time ago,” Awa told Chloé.

  “Your Omorose?” The girl crossed her arms.

  “What? No! She, she hates me, and I can’t say that I’m terribly fond of her, now that I’ve had ample time to consider things.”

  “Oh.” Chloé looked at Awa’s bulging satchel. “What are you after, then?”

  “The most important thing there is. If I succeed it’ll mean I can really take care of you, forever, and not be a drunk layabout hiding in a rabbithole. I’ll, I’ll really be able to take care of you.”

  “Can I come?” There was no hesitation in Chloé’s voice.

  “I …” Awa had not seriously considered the girl accepting an invitation, let alone inviting herself along. “I hadn’t—”

  “She was going, me was going,” said Merritt, sitting straighter in his chair and blinking at Awa. “We three was going.”

  “No,” said Awa, looking at Chloé. “No fucking way.”

  “Awa,” said Chloé, sliding out of her chair and going to Awa. “I know he’s been bad, but really, he’s got a sword, and is good with it, and—”

  “How the fuck would you know that?” said Awa, her enthusiasm rapidly dwindling. “I’d rather eat shit, breakfast and dinner, than—”

  “What saying she?” said Merritt, standing up. “We three was going.”

  “He’ll get tired of it and come back here a day out,” pleaded Chloé.

  “Why? Why the fuck should I put up with that?” said Awa, crossing her arms.

  “Because you love me,” hissed Chloé, “and if you love me you’ll say yes, and we can leave now. Otherwise—”

  “Fuck it,” decided Awa. “I’ll kill the beef if he gets mouthy. You hear me, you goddamn son of a bitch? You keep that mouth of yours shut or I’ll fucking gut you.”

  “Eh?” Merritt’s eyes grew big indeed, the man ill accustomed to anyone taking such a tone with him, especially a Moor. “What?”

  “Let’s get on with it, then,” said Awa, her smile nowhere near as strong as it had been in Monique’s chambers. For fuck’s sake.

  XXVI

  Necromancers and

  Other Scavengers

  Awa tried to maintain the optimism that had powered her out of the brothel, and had Chloé been her only companion she might have kept the chill of hopelessness at bay, but within a week of keeping close quarters with Merritt despair and frustration returned. It might have helped if she could have talked to Chloé about the true nature of her quest, but Awa had never told her partner anything about her past and the present seemed like an especially poor time to start, as every time she tried Merritt returned from checking the snares Awa set or otherwise mucking around in the wood. She was all too aware that as far as Chloé knew she was a simple Moor, albeit a strange one. That was what Awa had wanted her to think, but now that circumstances had changed she found herself without anyone to confide in as her unhappy, seemingly undeterrable demise loomed.

  One chill evening Merritt and Chloé chatted about saints after dinner in the lean-to Awa had put together, a dusting of snow already sparkling atop it in the firelight, and, of all things, that was the conversation that drew Awa deeply into bitter memories she had tried to blot out, memories of the first time she had searched for her tutor’s book. Merritt said something about Saint John and Awa excused herself, unable to feign indifference. When Chloé tapped her on the shoulder, asking again if she was determined to take first watch, Awa started back to the present, apologizing.

  “Are you … Awa?” Chloé squatted down and extended her fingers, brushing her lover’s wet face. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Awa took Chloé’s hand and kissed it, tasting her own tears. The snow continued to drift down on them and the necromancer was again reminded that this would be her last winter if she did not find the book. “It’s nothing, girl, just the snow melting in the fire.”

  “It’s almost out. You’ll freeze. Come and lay down, we don’t need a sentry every—”

  The fire flared up at Awa’s silent request and Chloé drew back in alarm, staring at the blaze. Awa tossed another windfall branch onto the flames and forced a smile. “The pitch deposits in these—you mustn’t get too close. I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”

  “Right.” Chloé shivered, then went to Awa and kissed her sweetly, her hands sliding under Awa’s hood to press her damp cheeks. Then she went back to the lean-to without another word and vanished into its shadow. Awa turned back to the fire and her reminiscences, gingerly fitting the pieces of her memory together like the scattered bones of an old skeleton.

  Awa had come down from the mountain, torn between hunting Omorose and hunting the book, and for the next four years she had wandered from churchyard to ruin to ill-marked barrow, skulking through the snow and rain until every pair of leggings had lost its stripes, until each tunic was thinner than cheesecloth, until she was little more than a shadow herself, no markers remaining to signify where dusty rags stopped and ashy skin started. She starved almost constantly, and on the few occasions she found herself rich in food she ate to overindulgence, to sickness, and everywhere she was alone save for the little bonebird she had created to keep herself company. Almost alone.

  “You’ll never find it,” he had said one misty spring morning, the necromancer’s shade having taken up residence in her skull. “Never, ever, ever.”

  “If you thought that you wouldn’t be here, watching me,” said Awa, though his voice had worn her purpose down from the peak it h
ad been atop the mountain to a rough little pebble. “You wouldn’t have come back.”

  “It was simple business that I had, and as I went directly it took the week and no more, and back I flew. I like to watch you being stupid,” he said. “Stupid black beast.”

  At first she had thought he was imitating Omorose to needle her, but as the voice prattled on while she covered herself with deadfall branches in the dawn gloom, an even more terrible possibility occurred to her. She let the thought steep in the back of her mind like wormwood in a kettle, in the blurry region where she had hidden her intention to murder him on the night she had—for all the good it had done her. Yet when she rose that evening and he started in again she was ready for him.

  “— fruitless as a winter orchard, you stupid—”

  “What’s your name?” asked Awa as she shouldered her bag.

  He did not say anything at first, and then said, “I won’t tell you.”

  “You will if you’re really him. He said the dead have to answer the living, and have to answer them honestly.”

  “The dead cannot lie. I never said they had to answer.”

  “Shit,” said Awa, unable to remember if that was true or not, and knowing how foolish it had been to try and catch him with such a trick. As soon as a thought occurred to her she knew she had thought it, of course, and if she knew she had thought something then he knew she had thought it and—the only thing to do was blunder ahead and hope for the best. “Why will you not answer me?”

  “Because knowing would give you power over me,” said the necromancer’s shade, but he spoke slowly, carefully. She had put him on guard and—

  “Why are you answering me at all if you don’t have to?”

  “Because I like to see you squirm. Truth burns hotter than ignorance, little Awa.”