by Alan Bayman
He sat there for a while, sipping spirits and occasionally helping patients. After a time his mood seemed to improve, or at least elevate to his usual level of dourness.
The day ended as it often did, with Aden dozing in his chair as I locked and barred the front door. I roused him to go do as he usually did, go to an inn to fetch something to eat, drink, and pay one of the serving wenches for her more intimate services, or go to his room where I suspected he did some experiments of his own. Or maybe used to. These days I was pretty sure he just ate some of the dried pork he had hanging in his room and then drink himself into a coma.
At least he was getting some food in him. He occasionally had me go out and purchase it at the Warf Market. I decided to purchase a higher quality meat than he wanted to pay for and covered the difference. He didn’t say anything about it but ate a lot more often when I did. That was good. The Miasma was less reactionary to his presence when he ate more. I wanted to get him to eat some vegetables and see how the Miasma reacted.
Getting him to stand up took more effort than usual. I realized that while he had drunk his usual amount, I had not seen him eat anything that day. I helped him over to his room, half carrying, half supporting him.
He mumbled something as he stumbled through the doorway and collapsed on his bed. I turned to go, closing the door behind me when I heard him say, “I know it was you.”
I stopped with the door half closed and turned to look at him. He was looking at me with his eyes lidded, drool coming out of the side of his mouth.
“Boils,” he mumbled, “on my belly.” His began to slur, “cured it. You cure cure cure… …you magic. Your, magic. Hate you. Why can’t I be you. You magic. Your, magic. I’m your magic. I want…,” he drifted off and began to snore.
I closed the door and went to the storage room. I considered fleeing but thought against it. Adan knew I could do some sort of magic, but still didn’t know what I was. If he found out, he could easily have me sold as property to some necromancer, but considering how much I had improved his business, I didn’t think he would. He hardly had to lift a hand at work anymore, just tell me what to do, and I had cut the number of fatalities on his operating table by more than half since I started helping him, even more so as my understanding of Miasma grew.
Still, the embers within me felt weary. I had begun to trust Cronwin when he betrayed me and did not want to repeat that experience. I spent some time planning in case I needed to escape in a hurry, and filled some vials with liquid Miasma, put them in cloth bundles, and hid them underwater in the canals scattered around, a good distance away but near places I thought I might be able to hide.
The next day seemed as usual as any other. Adan did not mention what he said the night before, and I wondered if he even remembered it. A few plague bearers trickled in, along with a merchant with a broken arm and a child with an injured foot that had healed incorrectly. The diseased and the arm where fast and easy as I had done them all before so many times now, but the foot injury was something new. I had never had to break and reset bone before. I found while I was doing it that I could focus the ambient Miasma to help me injure her. With aid of Miasma and a little practice, I could cause injuries with a precision of such detail, it would rival my calligraphy. However, it did exhaust me harnessing ambient Miasma to use. Resetting her foot was clumsy compared to what I knew I could do. I decided that if I had to reset bones again I would find a way to sneak some liquid Miasma into the room to work with.
When I finished, and the girl left, Adan surprised me by disappearing into his room and coming out with a large, thick, heavily bound and bloodstained book. He set it reverently on the table and said, “this is one of my prized possessions. It doesn’t leave this room or my bedroom. Patients and strangers don’t get to see it, or even know it exists.”
He went over to his chair and sat down again.
“Keep your body between the book and the front door. Throw some bandages over it when patients come in. But while we’re alone, read it. Memorize it. Know the pictures like the back of your hand.”
He took a sip of spirits, then coughed.
“And if you get so much as a smudge on it, your gold is going to be used to fix it. Understand?” He glared at me suddenly.
I nodded and looked down at the book.
It was titled: The Names of The Body, By Anthony Drake. Inside the cover it read: written by Anthony Drake, son of Lord Drake of the Almanon Empire. Translated (with permission) to Late Cyrian by Niles Kemberly, son of Count Kemberly of Ubenfold.
I felt a faint recognition at the name Kemberly. No memories surfaced, but I felt the embers of emotion within me respond, to my surprise, with anger.
The book itself was amazing, the drawings and calligraphy were far beyond my skill. I suspected magic was used in its making. Each chapter of the book addressed a different part of the human body, starting with the head and working its way down. The first page of each chapter always started the same: on the left-hand side was a drawing if a portion of the body the chapter addressed, in the nude. The drawing was in such exquisite detail it was almost as though I could reach out and touch it. The right side of the page in perfect calligraphy listed off the names of the various parts of the body shown. For example, on the first page there was the words Nose, Ear, Eyebrow, Iris, exedra, with lines denoting where each body part belonged. A bit boring, at first, until you got to the second page.
The second page of each chapter was virtually identical to the first one. But the second page drawing depicted the same man with layers of skin stripped away, and the definitive words on the right side of the book gave names for what was underneath.
With each accompanying page another layer of the man was stripped away, until the chapter ended with the drawings of bones. About half way through the book, the chapters ran out of body parts from the man, and in the next chapter it started all over again, this time with the face of a woman.
“Genius, isn’t it?” Adan said as I gazed at the book in wonder.
“It is exquisite,” I breathed. I knew I had held books before that had rivaled this one in art and detail, but they were extremely rare, and magical. On that thought, how could I tell if this book was or wasn’t magical? I knew there was more to magic than just Miasma…
“The Almanon Empire,” Adan continued over my thoughts, “no people are more sophisticated in all the world. They’ve forgotten more knowledge than our backward little kingdom will ever know.”
“Have you ever been there?”
Adan nodded, his eyes distant. “Trained at the Academy in Eborough. But nobody calls it Eborough anymore,” he snorted. “Now it’s just The City of Masks.”
I nodded. It made sense; the City of Masks was the only place in Almanon where foreigners where not shunned. My knowledge was dated from when I was alive and it seemed like things hadn’t changed much.
“Such a beautiful city,” he continued, his usual dourness oddly absent. “Machines made of brass and alchemy kept the streets clean. Not a single puddle of filth, not a one! They had toilet rooms all over, that anyone could use, and underground pipes carried it all away. You can’t imagine how clean it smells.
And the buildings, the buildings! Each one sculpted like some mages sorcery. Even the hovels of the most poor had brickwork fit for a palace.” He sighed.
“The women, now, the women,” he began to smile, which abruptly vanished as the front door began to open. I threw some bandages over the book and turned to face our guest.
It was not a patient. It was a young page looking around nervously. In his hand he held a small leather satchel.
“Is there a, uh, man by the name of Jorm, here?” His voice cracked.
“I am he,” I said.
“Do you, uh, have a signet, or, uh, identification?”
“No,” I said, growing suspicious. “What’s this about?”
He looked around, as though trying to decide something. Finally, he shrugged, opened the satchel, and h
anded me a yellow envelope with a gaudy red wax seal stamped on it. As I took it the boy immediately hurried out the door.
“Hey-,” I tried to call out to him as the door slammed.
“What is it,” Adan asked.
I looked at the envelope, with its gaudy seal of buildings and half literate runes. I think the runes where supposed to declare “land, honor, and trust”, but they were poorly arranged, so they could be easily reinterpreted as “honorably defending land from livestock.” Somebody must have shortchanged the scrivener when he designed it.
Breaking the seal, the letter said;
Citizen Jorm,
You are hereby required at the Estate House of Ubenfold Trust and Banking, on the matter of legally securing your financial future. I look forward to working with you in making this transaction easily and comfortably during your time of grieving.
Sincerely,
Earle Finnich,
Head of Trusts
Estate House of Ubenfold Trust and Banking
“Land, Honor, Trust”
I showed the letter to Adan, who shrugged.
“Better go then.”
“Who are they?”
“Small bank, north side of the docks,” he eyed me curiously. “They mostly deal in inheritances. Usually with ship captains, but some merchants use them too.”
I nodded. “I guess I should take care of this now then.” I didn’t like going out during the day, I would risk being spotted by a necromancer. But I didn’t see any alternative. Banks just weren’t open at night.
As I turned to step out, Adan said, “Hey, you really don’t know about the Estate House?”
I shook my head.
He gave me a long look, his usual frown deepening. “Just watch your back then. They run with a shady crowd. Do your business with them and get out quick as you can.”
“Maybe I should not go. Is the risk worth it?”
“You’ll be worse off ignoring it. You don’t want them looking for you. Or worse, hiring someone to go get you. Just remember that they don’t ask questions about where their money is coming from. Or going to.”
6.
The Estate House of Ubenfold Trust and Banking was nestled in the corner of a market square, surrounded by wagons selling fish and vegetables. It was an older building, but well maintained, with dark columns supporting a stone awning over the front entrance that the vendors used as shelter from the light drizzle that had been coming down the whole day.
Inside was spacious, with a high ceiling, rows of bronze lanterns evenly spaced along the walls, bright woven carpets, and thick heavy wooden desks with comfortable looking chairs. A man at the door dressed as a guard greeted me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and he asked me my business. I showed him the letter and he directed me to a desk where an older man dressed in expensive merchant’s garb sat. He must have had an affinity for silver, for he heavily laden with it. His hands clinked with silver bracelets and silver rings that taped against each other when he moved. His soft blue tunic was crushed against his chest with the weight of silver necklaces.
“Good day,” he said in a deep, assuring voice and a slightly more genuine smile than the guardsman. “I am Earle Finnich, Head of Trusts. What can I do for you?”
“I am Jorm. You sent me this letter,” I said, sitting across from him, and showing him the letter.
“Ah, yes,” he said, still smiling, although it looked like it took him more effort to do so.
He reached down, opening a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a small ornate box.
“First me must verify that you are who you say you are.” As he popped open the small box I resisted the urge to go for my sword. The box was much smaller than the one that held the doll but was similar in design. I placed my hands on the underside of the desk. It looked heavy, but I was strong. If he tried to attack me I was going to flip the desk over and bolt for the door.
He reached into the box and pulled out a small bone fragment wrapped in a few strands of black silk and set it on the table. It looked to me like part of a skull. I could see Miasma hovering around and through it like a small cloud.
“This is called a Bone of Lies,” he said. If you speak an untruth in its presence, it will rattle,” his smile widened. “Now, your name is Jorm, yes?”
I looked at the bone. I felt as though it looked back at me, glaring, like the cloud released from the doll had.
“Yes, I believe so,” the bone did not move. The man’s smile faltered.
“Do you have any other name?”
“No.”
The bone needed to move. I did not want the bone to move. With my desire I forced it to remain still.
“And you are a close associate with Mister Cronwin of Cronwins Goods?”
“Yes,” I said, startled. I did not like where this was going. I was about to get up and go when the man plucked up the bone fragment and briskly dropped it back in the box, closing it with a snap and putting it back in his drawer.
“We just needed to verify your identity,” he said, smile returning.
“Now, Cronwin passed away yesterday, and the day before he came here and declared you his soul beneficiary,” the man continued, pulling out a thick scroll.
I stared at him in disbelief. Why in all creation had Cronwin bothered to bequeath all his possessions to me, of all people? None of this was making any sense.
I could still feel the piece of bone watching me through the desk. Earle unrolled the scroll on the desk, revealing it to be a will and testament. The bottom of it was signed by Cronwin.
“The law states that the inheritor must be aware of an inheritance to receive it,” without hearing, it I sensed the bone fragment vibrate suddenly. “Were you aware that Cronwin willed his estate to you?”
I still wasn’t sure what was going on, but I didn’t like whatever game Earle was playing, and thwarting it seemed the best way to get out of this in one piece.
“Yes,” I said. The fragment needed to rattle again, but I stopped it.
Earle’s smile slipped for a moment, and he looked down at the desk where the bone fragment was stored. He then looked back up at me, his eyes hard, and tried to smile. He pulled out an ink and quill from another part of the desk and set them in front of me.
“Please sign below, where it says ‘beneficiary’. I’ll go fetch your notes.”
I signed as he came back with three more scrolls to sign. One was for the title of Cronwins Goods. One was a deed for the building Cronwins Goods resided in, along with the warehouse behind it. The last was a bank note for over 8 thousand in gold.
“I do hope for your sake you’re not going to try and cash this all at once,” he said, smiling thinly as he handed me the bank note. “It’s a rough neighborhood out there. All sorts of things can happen.” His cold eyes bore into me as he spoke.
“Goods can be exchanged with Raina,” he gestured to a desk behind and to the left of him, where a young woman in an off-white dress sat. “Until we meet again.” He leaned back in his chair, watching me head to Raina’s desk.
Raina struck me as an attempt in distraction. She was cheerful, naïve in a sort of bubbly way, and leaned over often when she spoke; revealing that her corset was far too tight for the size of her bust.
Being dead, this did nothing for me (or so I thought at the time). I did feel some memories of when it did; mostly faint images of the woman from my first vision.
Raina gave me a hundred pieces of gold, withdrawn from my account, and a familiar looking ring of keys for Cronwins shop and warehouse. With keys in hand and money in purse I immediately headed towards Cronwins Goods.
It wasn’t long passing through the noon day crowds that I realized that I was being followed. He was clever, whoever he was. He would always be behind someone else or turned away from me when I looked in his direction. He was a large man, but that’s all I could say about him, as he changed cloaks several times in perusing me. I only recognized him by the medallion he wore. He wor
e it hidden, but I could feel the Miasma churning in it like a tiny angry storm.
I took a roundabout route, hurrying along as fast as I could without running. It was risky being out like this during the day, and that spurned me to go faster.
Finally, I was in front of the store. I unlocked it, went inside, and locked and barred the door behind me.
I wanted to find out how Cronwin had died, and why he had bothered to will his things to me of all people. I went over to the counter in which I had purchased so many things over the last few months. On it was a thick half-opened letter next to an ink and quill.
The letter was originally addressed to someone else, but the name had been blotted out and my name was written next to it. The letter gave detailed instructions on how to find all the hidden stashes within the shop and warehouse, including a trap door hidden within one of the hidden stashes containing his ‘most prized possessions’. A lot of other writing had been blotted or scribbled out, but I managed to glean that the original addressee was his nephew, and that Cronwin was proud of his nephews vaunted status among the Stockies.
This was worrisome. The Stockies was an organization of thugs, cutthroats, pickpockets, and thieves whose territory ran from the lowest docks to the Southern stockyards. They originated in the stockyards, which was how they got their name. According to the chatter of patients I’ve treated, they are one of the stronger gangs in the city.
The letter ended with Cronwin’s signature. As I finished it, I noticed some of the ink used to blot the letter had spilled on the counter top. Someone had, it looked with great effort, scrawled a few words in the spilled ink with their fingers. It read: