The Business Of Death, Death Works Trilogy

by Trent Jamieson

  The blinds are up, and it’s snowing outside. Suzanne and Cerbo are both waiting for me.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. de Selby,” Suzanne says, and pecks me on the cheek before I even realize what she’s doing.

  “You, too, Ms. Whitman.”

  Suzanne leads Cerbo and me into her office. “I can’t tell you how much I am looking forward to spending a few days in Australia,” she says, once she’s shut her door and sat in her throne. “I’ve actually booked a room at the Marriott, a couple of blocks away from the bridge. Beautiful view.”

  I’m not here for small talk. “Things are getting worse,” I say. “Stirrers are growing in numbers and I can’t detect them.”

  “We’ve had problems here, too,” Suzanne says. “The god’s presence is making them almost reckless. You’ve seen it, you can understand why.”

  “Rillman isn’t helping, either.” I describe the symbol Rillman designed, and its powers. I’d emailed the details out to every RM, but it doesn’t hurt to go over it again.

  “No, he is proving to be something of a trial,” Suzanne says.

  “That may be the biggest understatement I have heard in my life. Are you practicing for a political career? A trial? Christ! And I need to know as much as I can about this god. Is there even any hope of stopping it?”

  Suzanne nods at Cerbo.

  “All I can tell you is this, and it goes back a ways,” Cerbo says, pouring me a coffee, which I didn’t ask for but accept nonetheless. “Six hundred million years ago something happened. Call it Snowball Earth, call it whatever you want, but after that, life grew more complicated, and the Stirrers’ grip on this world ended.” His voice speeds up: words tumble into each other with his excitement. I’ve never seen Cerbo so wound up. He’s a nerd of the apocalypse. “You can see it more clearly in the Underworld. Look at the base of the One Tree; you’ll see stromatolites crowding in like slimy green warts. We even have intelligence—” Cerbo looks at Suzanne, and she nods. “—we’ve even had intelligence that the Stirrers keep some in the heart of their city. Get out on the Tethys, go more than a few miles out, and what do you find? Nothing, no echoes of anything. Life hugs the shore. There’s probably patches or places that correspond roughly to life and death on the earth but the sea of Hell is vast and I haven’t found them. Believe me, I’ve looked.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “What you probably already know, and what you will know as time goes by, ever quicker for you—that life is precarious. I think the Stirrer god existed before the Stirrers; a long time before. Maybe it’s as old as the birth of the universe and Underverse itself.”

  “Old doesn’t mean smart,” I say.

  “But it does mean tenacious and robust. That Stirrer god may be the most ancient consciousness in existence.”

  “So that’s what we’re up against?”

  Cerbo nods.

  I think about it for a moment. Try and find the most positive outcome. “Well, life won before, obviously. We’re all still here. Things are alive. Life can win again.”

  Cerbo shakes his head. “But you see, I think that was an accidental victory, a consequence of forces that just slipped in life’s favor. That is, if you can even call it a victory. Life exploded after those events, but the desolation beforehand…And this time…”

  “And if the world shifted that way again?”

  “It may well be worse than the Stirrer god itself. You don’t know how bad the earth would be if we returned to those minus-fifty-degree Celsius temperatures.”

  I shrug. “I’ve seen The Empire Strikes Back.”

  Cerbo’s smile is thinner than his mustache. “Humor is an inadequate defense. And it would be nothing like that. The planet Hoth would be a walk in the park on a summer’s day compared to that.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do.”

  Suzanne grabs my hand. “See? See how difficult this is? This is what we are up against. I ask that you not judge any of us for the choices we may have to make in the days ahead. You, least of all.”

  I open my mouth to speak. Suzanne’s phone rings, and mine follows a few moments later. We look at each other. When an RM’s phone rings it’s never a good thing.

  It’s Tim on mine. I answer it, trying to work out just who is calling Suzanne.

  “Steve?” Tim asks. He sounds a little frightened. He’d been laughing at my table only a few hours ago. I immediately think the worst.

  “Yeah.” Just give me the bad news.

  “Neill’s dead.”

  I look at Suzanne and Cerbo. They’re both pale as sheets, both getting the same message.

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah, it seems that Rillman has had better luck in South Africa.”

  An RM? Someone has managed to do what I thought impossible. “Is it a Schism?”

  “No. David, Neill’s Ankou, called me. Let me tell you, the guy was in a state. Someone came at Neill with knives, cut him up badly. Cut him into little pieces, is how David put it.”

  Then Tim’s voice falls away. He’s still talking, but I can’t hear him. Something is clawing its way into my chest. A force, a strength that’s part dark chuckle, part dread fear, part chest imploder. I recognize it at once. With Neill dead, a twelfth of his share of the Hungry Death is drawn into me.

  I drop to the floor, maybe black out, because the next thing I see is Cerbo hesitating between Suzanne and me. We’re both on the carpet.

  “Well, can you help me get up?” Suzanne says, the first to recover. Her eyes are bright.

  And yet, Cerbo hesitates. “That hasn’t happened yet,” Suzanne growls. “Here, now. Focus on me.”

  Cerbo runs to Suzanne’s side, pulling her to her feet.

  What the hell was that about? I wonder. I’m shaky, but standing now. Suzanne glances at me.

  “This is not good,” she says.

  “But Neill has been dead for a while.”

  “The transfer isn’t instantaneous. The Hungry Death has to find us. It’s drawn to our flesh, but it takes time.” Suzanne shakes her head. “Poor Neill.”

  “I thought you said the transition needed blood,” I say.

  “Well, there was plenty of it—Neill’s blood,” Suzanne says grimly.

  “This changes things,” Cerbo says. “Surely you can—”

  “It changes nothing.” Suzanne smiles so viciously at Cerbo that he quails.

  She looks at me. “Tend to your region, Steven. I must tend to mine.”

  “What about Neill’s region? Who’s tending to it?”

  “Charlie Top. At least, until we can organize some sort of transition. A Schism and Negotiation is messy, but this is far worse. It will have to do. We’ve two days until the Moot. We can organize something then.”

  I try and imagine something messier than a Schism. I can’t, but then I’m not really the most knowledgeable RM. What I really don’t like is the stronger HD inside me. The mere thought of all that carnage pulls at my lips. He pulls at my lips, from the inside. It’s an effort not to smile, but I won’t give HD that satisfaction. This is my body.

  Suzanne waves me away with one hand. And I go.

  I shift to my office, my head pounding with this new fragment of the Hungry Death. I tumble into my throne and the comfort it provides. The throne is slightly bigger, its edges harder, and yet I find it more comfortable to sit in. I decide I don’t like that and I get to my feet, walk about my office, pull open the door.

  The office is busy, but that’s what you expect at this time of year, and in this trade. Holidays mean nothing—other than a serious inflation of the payroll, according to Tim.

  Word has spread fast about Neill. Lissa’s left a message on my phone, she’s coming in straightaway. I look at my watch. It’s getting late. People glance hurriedly away as I catch their eye. This is an office that is spooked. I don’t blame them.

  I make a show of going to the photocopier, try to look like everyt
hing is normal. It seems to have the opposite effect, particularly when I jam the bloody machine. Right, then, a more direct approach is needed. These people haven’t deserted me, and I damn well won’t desert them. I walk to the center of the office, and clear my throat. I’ve heard my share of inspirational speeches.

  “As you have probably heard, the South African RM has died.” The office is silent, listening. “Well, we have a Death Moot to run. In just three days, the remaining RMs will be here. Things are going to get hectic, but I am not going anywhere. Rillman has tried to kill me numerous times, and failed. I will not desert you.”

  I don’t notice Tim until he’s standing beside me. Lissa’s here, too, now. She smiles hesitantly at me.

  “We’ll see this out,” Tim says.

  “We’ve faced worse.” Lissa’s voice is hard and strong. She holds my hand. “But it won’t mean anything if we don’t keep pomping or if we stop stalling Stirrers. We can’t let Neill’s death distract us. Everything dies, we all know that.”

  “And we have to make sure that that keeps happening. We have to be strong. I won’t let you down.” I don’t know if that’s enough, but it’s all I have.

  “Where were you?” Lissa asks me, once everyone returns to work—inspired, or terrified, or hunting for the job pages.

  “Checking out the bridge,” I lie.

  Tim looks like he’s about to say something, and then seems to think the better of it.

  I guide them both into my office, and then the black phone, Mr. D’s phone, rings.

  29

  There’s a first time for everything.

  I snatch it up.

  “Neti’s rooms,” Mr. D says in a tone I’ve never heard before. “Now.”

  Mr. D can be direct when he needs to be.

  “What the hell is going on?” Lissa demands.

  “I need you to stay here,” I say. “Both of you. It’s something to do with Neti. Mr. D sounds frightened.”

  I head out the door, then across the office floor. I’m running by the time I hit the hall. Wal shudders on my arm and begins to slide free, his ink turning to muscle and bone. He tears from my flesh with the hummingbird whirr of a cherub’s flight.

  “Where are we going in such a hurry?”

  “Neti’s rooms. Mr. D—”

  “Bugger.”

  I don’t bother knocking this time. I open Neti’s door, almost hitting Mr. D in the head in the process.

  “Watch yourself,” Mr. D says.

  “Neti?”

  “Oh, she’s dead. Well and truly, more than I could have ever believed.”

  But that much is obvious already. There’s not much of her left. Her little parlor is splattered with blood. It’s everywhere. Strings of it dangle from light fittings, puddles gleam red and slick all across the floor. Is this what Rillman had wanted to do to me?

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Mr. D says. But I have. HD is having a grand old time, I can feel him tugging at the corner of my lips.

  I try and imagine the fight. There are burn marks everywhere, just like the Stirrer safe house. And the smell of cooking flesh, not the usual wholesome odors of scones or cake—though there is some of that in the background. The spider in the corner hangs limp and dead.

  Wal flits around us, looking slightly green. “What does this mean?” he says.

  “Rillman took a great deal of pleasure in doing this,” I say.

  “Obviously,” Mr. D says.

  “Who’s going to replace her?” Wal asks, puffing out his chest, and riffling through her collection of china plates. I wave him away from there.

  “Something will replace her, but it will be different. And it will come in its own time. That’s the way these things work,” says Mr. D.

  Neti looks so small, but that’s because she is in so many different pieces. I’m Death, so it’s beneath me to gag, but it’s hard not to. Her limbs are spread around the room. Her eyes are sightless. The television chatters; an inane game show. And it looks like she is watching it. Her strength and her menace are gone. Aunt Neti is dead, and murdered with such cruel joy. HD cheers a little.

  “Where are the Knives of Negotiation?” I say suddenly remembering them. “Please tell me they’re safe.”

  Mr. D pales. He rushes to the black cabinet, does something intricate with its scrollwork and one of its doors slides to one side. The knives’ usual resting place. “Nothing,” he says.

  My brain ticks over. Rillman must have started with his stony razor, covered with my blood, perhaps to give it greater efficacy. And then, when he had incapacitated Neti, he snatched the knives and put them to quick snicker-snack use, finishing off the job. Then he probably shifted directly to Neill’s office. Aunt Neti’s been dead a while. Rillman had been anxious to leave in the tunnel, and not just because my Avian Pomps had arrived. He’d never expected to take so long with me.

  There is a plate of scones on the table, untouched. Neti was expecting Rillman, or someone. Like she said, she only makes scones when people are coming to her with questions. Her prescience had failed as to Rillman’s real intentions.

  I wonder if she wasn’t working with him in some way. Maybe the Stirrer safe houses, their grid, is being used for something else. Maybe Rillman was using both sides.

  I have never seen Mr. D look so rattled. “So what do we do from here?” I ask.

  “We talk strategy. Rillman is killing RMs, and suddenly the focus has turned away from the real threat, the coming Stirrer god.”

  “Well, that’s got them scared as well.” I sigh. I really don’t know whom I can trust at all. But one thing is certain; Mr. D doesn’t have the answers.

  But there’s someone who does, and I might just catch her.

  “I’m going to have to leave you here to clean up,” I say to Mr. D.

  “Of course,” Mr. D says, though he is obviously affronted. “I of all people know how busy you are.”

  I give him a quick salute and shift.

  Eight long arms snap out at me, but only one connects. It’s enough to put me on my arse. The One Tree creaks around us in sympathy with her or me, I’m not sure.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Several hands help me up.

  “I didn’t expect Rillman would visit you here.”

  “How did you know, dear?” Aunt Neti asks. She doesn’t look happy, but I wouldn’t be either if someone I’d considered an ally had just chopped me into little pieces.

  “You made him scones. You were expecting his visit.” I grimace. “I kind of guessed it.”

  Aunt Neti scowls. “When you broke the rules, and didn’t even choose me to allow your Orpheus Maneuver, well, that was too much.”

  “Charon was just there,” I say. “I didn’t realize that there was any other way.”

  “Exactly. At least Rillman understood how it was meant to be done. I was the one who helped his Orpheus Maneuver. I felt so guilty that it failed, not because of anything I did, but that blasted Mr. D.”

  “I thought Mr. D was your friend.”

  Aunt Neti nods. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. You would do well to remember that, Mr. de Selby, when it all comes falling down around you. Rillman failed, and I felt that I owed him. Besides, once you had clearly disdained me, well, what allegiance did I owe to you?

  “I was happy to cover for him, to let him return to the land of the living. We REs perform Orpheus Maneuvers all the time; we let the curtains slip between life and death. It’s not such a big deal for us, because we’re not really alive. But I never meant to create a monster, and certainly not one so dangerous. My indulgence never went as far as the stone knives.”

  I glare at her. “It should never have gone as far as your lies. You owed your loyalty to me.”

  Aunt Neti snorts. Her eight arms wave around her, a halo of limbs, and then she’s jabbing them in my face. “And what do you owe yours to? Not much, as far as I can see. With your rule-breaking, your moaning. And when did you ever really come to me
for advice? There are things you could have learned if you trusted me. But no, you avoided your Aunt Neti, unless it was absolutely necessary. My Francis never did that. And you skimped on your duties, drinking, not showing up for work. People talk, Mr. de Selby, and your Aunt Neti listens.”

  “And look where that’s gotten you,” I snap. “A place on the One Tree, and no power at all.”

  The air seems knocked out of her. She folds her hands neatly around her waist, and dips her head.

  “Yes … Well, it’s a fabulous view,” Aunt Neti sighs. I can see she’s already growing listless with death. Soon the One Tree will have her and all that will remain will be a fading memory. “You’re right, of course, but it’s too late for me now. There are some lessons that you take to the grave.”

  30

  Evening after a long and confusing day. HD is making me jittery. The Moot’s looming and I’m home. I want to be with Lissa, but that’s not whom I’ve got. The kitchen buzzes with the energy of two RMs. I wonder what Dad would think. I wonder if he would be proud. I doubt it. Maybe, if I’d let Lissa in on my secret. It’s been a long day.

  I don’t like having the meeting here, at home. But Suzanne insisted. Lissa isn’t due back for another couple of hours. There is a stir expected at the Princess Alexandra Hospital.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” Suzanne said. “But here we are, a Recognized Entity is dead. Killed not by one of us, nor by our enemy, but by that stupid, vengeance-craving man.”

  “And with those knives. He can wreak bloody havoc with them,” I say. “Maybe we should consider canceling the Death Moot.”

  “No,” Suzanne growls. “The Death Moot goes ahead. To cancel it would set an alarming precedent. We’re better off together, stronger. Unless, that is, if he manages to kill us all … Well, that thing that we contain, it won’t be contained anymore.”

  “Where would it go?”

  Suzanne’s smile is wide. “Imagine your dreams, imagine that made reality. That shadowy, lurching Hungry Death; that relentless slaughter. De Selby, it’s in us all, it’s in everything living. But in us… us twelve, now… it’s magnified, personified. Death is part of life, but without anyone to control it … all that power is not a legacy I want to leave for the world. Still—”