by Glen Cook
“Let’s look,” Raven said.
Asa was right. The cavern narrowed and its ceiling descended. The passageway was choked with bones. Shed noted the absence of skulls and urns.
Raven chuckled. “Your Custodians aren’t as passionate about the dead as you thought, Shed.”
“The chambers you see during Spring and Autumn Rites aren’t like this,” Shed admitted.
“I don’t guess anybody cares about the old ones anymore,” Asa said.
“Let’s go back,” Raven suggested. As they walked, he observed, “We all end up here. Rich or poor, weak or strong.” He kicked a mummy. “But the rich stay in better shape. Asa, what’s down the other way?”
“I only ever went about a hundred yards. More of the same.” He was trying to open a passage urn.
Raven grunted, took an urn, opened it, dumped several coins onto his hand. He held them near the torch. “Uhm. How did you explain their age, Asa?”
“Money has no provenance,” Shed said.
Asa nodded. “And I made out like I’d found a buried treasure.”
“I see. Lead on.”
Soon Asa said, “This is as far as I ever went.”
“Keep going.”
They wandered till even Raven responded to the oppression of the cavern. “Enough. Back to the surface.” Once up top, he said, “Get the tools. Damn. I’d hoped for better.”
Soon they were back with a spade and ropes. “Shed, dig a hole over there.
Asa, hang on to this end of the rope. When I yell, start pulling.” Raven descended into the Catacombs.
Asa remained rooted, as instructed. Shed dug. After a while, Asa asked, “Shed, what’s he doing?”
“You don’t know? I thought you knew everything he did.”
“I just told Krage that. I couldn’t keep up with him all night.”
Shed grimaced, turned another spadeful of earth. He could guess how Asa worked. By sleeping somewhere most of the time. Spying would have interfered with woodgathering and grave-robbing.
Shed was relieved. Asa didn’t know what he and Raven had done. But he would before long.
He looked inside himself and found little self-disgust. Damn! He was accustomed to these crimes already. Raven was making him over in his own image.
Raven shouted. Asa hauled away. He called, “Shed, give me a hand. I can’t get this by myself.”
Resigned, Shed joined him. Their catch was exactly what he expected, a mummy sliding out of the darkness like some denizen of the deeps of yesteryear. He averted his gaze. “Get his feet, Asa.”
Asa gagged. “My God, Shed. My God. What are you doing?”
“Be quiet and do what you’re told. That’s the best way. Get his feet.”
They moved the body into the brush near Shed’s pit. A passage urn rolled out of a bundle tied upon its chest. The bundle contained another two dozen urns. So. The hole was for burying empty urns. Why didn’t Raven fill his pockets down there?
“Let’s get out of here, Shed,” Asa whined.
“Back to your rope.” Urns took time to empty. And Raven had two men up top with little to do but think. So. They were busy-work. And an incentive, of course. Two dozen urns with each cadaver would build up quite a pile.
“Shed. …”
“Where you going to run to, Asa?” The day was clear and unseasonably warm, but it was still winter. There was no way out of Juniper. “He’d find you. Go back to your rope. You’re in it now, like it or not.” Shed resumed digging.
Raven sent up six mummies. Each carried its bundle of urns. Then Raven returned. He studied Asa’s ashen face, Shed’s resignation. “Your turn, Shed.”
Shed gulped, opened his mouth, swallowed his protest, slunk toward the hole. He lingered over it, a hair’s breadth from rebellion.
“Move it, Shed. We don’t have forever.”
Marron Shed went down among the dead.
It seemed he was in the Catacombs forever, numbly selecting cadavers, collecting urns, dragging his grisly booty to the rope. His mind had entered another reality. This was the dream, the nightmare. At first he did not understand when Raven called for him to come up.
He clambered into gathering dusk. “Is that enough? Can we go now?”
“No,” Raven replied. “We’ve got sixteen. I figure we can get thirty on the wagons.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“You haul up,” Raven said. “Asa and I will go down.”
Shed hauled. In the silvery light of a three-quarters moon the dead faces seemed accusing. He swallowed his loathing and placed each with the others, then emptied urns.
He was tempted to take the money and run. He stayed more out of greed than fear of Raven. He was a partner this time. Thirty bodies at thirty leva meant nine hundred leva to share out. Even if he took the small cut, he would be richer than he’d ever dreamed.
What was that? Not Raven’s order to haul away. It sounded like someone screaming. … He nearly ran. He did go to pieces momentarily. Raven’s bellowing brought him together. The man’s cold, calm contempt had vanished.
Shed heaved. This one was heavy. He grunted, strained. … Raven came scrambling up. His clothing was torn. A bloody gash marked one cheek. His knife was red. He whirled, grabbed the rope. “Pull!” he shouted. “Damn you, pull!”
Asa came out a moment later, tied to the rope. “What happened? My God, what happened?” Asa was breathing, and that was about it.
“Something jumped us. It tore him up before I could kill it.”
“A Guardian. I warned you. Get another torch. Let’s see how bad he is.” Raven just sat there panting, flustered. Shed got the torch, lighted it.
Asa’s wounds were not as bad as he had feared. There was a lot of blood, and Asa was in shock, but he wasn’t dying. “We ought to get out of here, Raven. Before the Custodians come.”
Raven recovered his composure. “No. There was only one. I killed it. We’re in this now. Let’s get it done right.”
“What about Asa?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get to work.”
“Raven, I’m exhausted.”
“You’re going to get a lot tireder before we’re done. Come on. Let’s get the mess cleaned up.”
They moved the bodies to the wagons, then the tools, then carted Asa down. As they worked the litter through the wall, Shed asked, “What should we do with him?”
Raven looked at him as though he were a moron. “What do you think, Shed?”
“But. …”
“It doesn’t much matter now, does it?”
“I guess not.” But it did matter. Asa wasn’t much, but Shed knew him. He was no friend, but they had helped one another out . … “No. Can’t do it, Raven. He can make it. If I was sure he was checking out, yeah. Okay. No body, no questions. But I can’t kill him.”
“Well. A little spirit after all. How are you going to keep him quiet? He’s the kind who gets throats cut with loose talk.”
“I’ll handle him.”
“Whatever you say, partner. It’s your neck.”
The night was well along when they reached the black castle. Raven went in first. Shed followed closely. They pulled into the same passage as before. The drill was the same. After they laid out the bodies, a tall, lean creature went down the line. “Ten. Ten. Thirty. Ten. Ten.” And so forth.
Raven protested vigorously. The only offers above ten were for the men who had followed them to the Enclosure and for Asa, who remained in his wagon.
The tall being faced Raven. “These have been dead too long. They have little value. Take them back if you’re not satisfied.”
“All right. All right. Let’s have it.”
The being counted out coins. Raven pocketed six of each ten. He handed the rest to Shed. As he did so, he told the tall being, “This man is my partner. He may come alone.”
The tall figure inclined its head, took something from within its clothing, handed it to Shed. It was a silver pendant in the form of serpents entwined.
“Wear that if you come up alone,” Raven said. “That’s your safe-conduct.” Under his icy stare Shed slipped the pendant into a pocket already filled with silver.
He ran the arithmetic. One hundred twelve leva as his share. It would have taken him half a decade to accumulate that much honestly. He was rich! Damn him, he was rich! He could do anything he wanted. No more debts. No more Krage killing him slowly. No more gruel every meal. Turn the Lily into something decent. Maybe find a place where his mother would have proper care. Women. All the women he could handle.
As he turned his wagon, he glimpsed a high chunk of wall that hadn’t been there last visit. A face stared out. It was the face of the man he and Raven had brought in alive. Its eyes watched him.
Juniper: Duretile
Whisper delivered us to a broken-down castle named Duretile. It overlooks Juniper in general and the Enclosure in specific. For a week we had no contact with our hosts. We had no language in common. Then we were graced with the presence of a thug named Bullock who spoke the languages of the Jewel Cities.
Bullock was some kind of enforcer for the local religion. Which I could not figure out at all. It looks like a death cult at first. Look again and you find death or the dead not worshipped but revered, with bodies fanatically preserved against some millennial revival. The whole character of Juniper is shaped by this, except for the Buskin, where life has so many concerns more vital than the welfare of the dead.
I took an instant dislike to Bullock. He struck me as violence-prone and sadistic, a policeman who would solve his cases with a truncheon. He would survive when the Lady annexed Juniper. Her military governors have a need for his ilk.
I expected annexation to occur within days of the Captain’s arrival. We’d have it scoped out before he got here. One word from Charm would do it. I saw no indication the Duke’s people could stop it.
As soon as Feather and Whisper had all our people in, including translators, Bullock, the Duke himself, and a man named Hargadon, who was senior Custodian of the Dead—meaning he ran the Catacombs where bodies were stored—they led us into the bitter cold atop Duretile’s north wall. The Duke extended an arm. “That fortress over there is why I asked for help.”
I looked at it and shuddered. There was something creepy about the place.
“We call it the black castle,” he said. “It’s been there for centuries.” And then he gave us a chunk almost too big to swallow. “It started out as a little black rock lying beside a dead man. The man who found them tried to pick the rock up. He died. And the rock started growing. It’s been growing ever since. Our ancestors experimented on it. They attacked it. Nothing harmed it. Anybody who touched it died. For the sake of their sanity, they decided to ignore it.”
I shaded my eyes, stared at the castle. Not that unusual, from Duretile, except it was black and gave me the creeps.
The Duke continued, “For centuries it hardly grew. It’s only a few generations since it stopped looking like a rock.” He got a haunted look. “They say there are things living inside there.”
I smiled. What did he expect? A fortress exists to surround something, whether built or grown,
Hargadon assumed the narrative. He had been in his job too long. He’d developed an official’s pompous style. “For the last several years it’s grown damned fast. The Custodial Office became concerned when we heard rumors—out of the Buskin, so unreliable to be sure—saying the creatures inside were buying cadavers. The accuracy of those rumors remains a source of heated debate within the Office. However, no one can deny that we’re not getting enough corpses out of the Buskin these days. Our street patrols collect fewer than they did ten years ago. Times are leaner now. The street poor are more numerous. More should be expiring of exposure.”
A real sweetheart, this Hargadon. He sounded like a manufacturer whining because his profit margin was down.
He continued, “It’s been hypothesized that the castle may soon be beyond a need to purchase bodies—if it is at all. I’m not convinced.” Came down squarely on both sides of a question, too. That’s my boy, “Its occupants may become numerous enough to come take what they want.”
Elmo asked, “You think people are selling bodies, why don’t you grab them and make them talk?”
Time for the policeman to enter his bit. Bullock said, “We can’t catch them.” He had a but-if-they’d-let-me-do-it-my-way tone. “It’s happening down in the Buskin, you see. It’s another world down there. You don’t find out much if you’re an outsider.”
Whisper and Feather stood a bit apart, examining the black castle. Their faces were grim.
The Duke wanted something for nothing. In essence, he wanted to stop worrying about that fortress. He said we could do whatever it took to eliminate his worry. Only we’d have to do it his way. Like he wanted us to stay inside Duretile while his men and Hargadon’s acted as our eyes, ears and hands. He was afraid of repercussions our presence could cause if known.
A few Rebel fugitives had come to Juniper after their defeat at Charm. The Lady was known here, though little considered. The Duke feared the refugees would incite trouble if he was suspected of collaborating.
In some ways he was an ideal overlord. All he wanted from his people was to be left alone. He was willing to grant the same favor.
So, for a while, we stayed tucked away—till Whisper became irritated by the quality of information we were given.
It was filtered. Sanitized, it was useless. She cornered the Duke and told him her men would be going out with his.
He actually stood up to her for a few minutes. The battle was bitter. She threatened to pull out, leaving him twisting in the wind. Pure bluff. She and Feather were intensely interested in the black castle. Armed force could not have levered them out of Juniper.
The Duke subdued, she turned on the Custodians. Bullock was stubbornly jealous of his prerogatives. I do not know how she brought him around. He never was gracious about it.
I became his companion on investigative jaunts, mainly because I learned the language quickly. Nobody down below paid me any mind.
Him they did. He was a walking terror. People crossed the street to avoid him. I guess he had a bad reputation.
Then came news which miraculously cleared the obstacles the Duke and Custodians had dumped in our path.
“You hear?” Elmo asked. “Somebody broke into their precious Catacombs. Bullock is smoking. His boss is having a shit hemorrhage.”
I tried to digest that, could not. “More detail, if you please.” Elmo tends to abbreviate.
“During the winter they let poor people get away with sneaking into the Enclosure. To collect deadwood for firewood. Somebody got in who decided to take more. Found a way into the Catacombs. Three or four men.”
“I still don’t get the whole picture, Elmo.” He enjoys being coaxed.
“All right. All right. They got inside and stole all the passage urns they could lay hands on. Took them out, emptied them, and buried them in a pit. They also lifted a bunch of old-time mummies. I never seen such moaning and carrying on. You better back off your scheme for getting into the Catacombs.”
I had mentioned a desire to see what went on down there. The whole setup was so alien I wanted a closer look. Preferably unchaperoned. “Think they’d get overwrought, eh?”
“Overwrought isn’t the half. Bullock is talking bad. I’d hate to be those guys and get caught by him.”
“Yeah? I’d better check this out.”
Bullock was in Duretile at the time, coordinating his work with that of the Duke’s incompetent secret police.
Those guys were a joke. They were practically celebrities, and not a one had the guts to go down into the Buskin, where really interesting things happened.
There is a Buskin in every city, though the name varies. It is a slum so bad the police dare go in only in force. Law there is haphazard at best, mostly enforced by self-proclaimed magistrates supported by toughs they recruit themselves. It is a
very subjective justice they mete, likely to be swift, savage, unforgiving, and directed by graft.
I caught up with Bullock, told him, “Till this latest business is cleaned up, I stick like your leg.” He scowled. His heavy cheeks reddened. “Orders,” I lied, faking an apologetic tone.
“Yeah? All right. Come on.”
“Where you headed?”
“The Buskin. Thing like this had to come out of the Buskin. I’m going to track it down,” He had guts, for all his other failings. Nothing intimidated him.
I wanted to see the Buskin, He might be the best guide available. I’d heard he went there often, without interference. His reputation was that nasty. A good shadow to walk in.
“Now?” I asked.
“Now.” He led me out into the cold and down the hill. He did not ride. One of his little affectations. He never rode. He set a brisk pace, as a man will who is accustomed to getting things done afoot.
“What’re we going to look for?” I asked.
“Old coins. The chamber they defiled goes back several centuries. If somebody spent a lot of old money in the last couple days, we might get a line on our men.”
I frowned. “I don’t know spending patterns here. Places I’ve been, though, people can hang on to a family hoard for ages, then have one black sheep up and spend it all. A few old coins might not mean anything.”
“We’re looking for a flood, not a few. For a man who spent a fistful. There were three or four men involved. Odds are good one of them is a fool.” Bullock had a good grasp of the stupid side of human nature. Maybe because he was close to it himself. Meow.
“We’ll be real nice doing the tracing,” he told me, as though he expected me to hammer people in outrage. His values were the only ones he could imagine. “The man we want will run when he hears me asking questions.”
“We chase him?”
“Just enough so he keeps moving. Maybe he’ll lead us somewhere. I know several bosses down there who could’ve engineered this. If one of them did, I want his balls on a platter.”
He spoke in a fever, like a crusader. Did he have some special grievance against the crime lords of the slum? I asked.