Soul Remains

by Sam Hooker

  “You’d really send the economy into ruin for cabbage prices?”

  “Not for that alone,” said Bob. “I’ve got other interests that align as well, but that’s none of your concern.”

  “Fine,” said Sloot. “There’s a plot to kidnap the Domnitor, long may he reign, from his home in exile in Stagralla. There, I’ve tattled. Would you like to gloat now, or wait until I leave?”

  “Easy, Peril. It’s good you’ve decided to cooperate, I knew you were a smart man. Now, tell me everything you know.”

  “Er, well, I have.”

  Silence.

  “Is that how you thank me for saying you’re smart?”

  “It’s how I tell the truth.”

  “Do you think you’re the first person to try and bluff their way out of my debt? Come now, Peril. If we’re going to insult each other, I’ll have you crying in minutes.”

  “Look, I understand that it’s not a lot—”

  “It’s nothing! You’ve told me literally nothing, Peril. You’ve barely regurgitated what I told you!”

  “You didn’t know he was in Stagralla.”

  “If I didn’t know where the Domnitor was—don’t you dare—I wouldn’t be who I am today. I’ve known the Domnitor’s whereabouts—I’m warning you—since before he was born. You know something I don’t, whether you know it or not.”

  Long may he reign, Sloot thought to himself. Long may he reign.

  Dating

  It was a long time before Winking Bob was satisfied that Sloot was telling the truth about knowing next to nothing. Well, satisfied is probably the wrong word. A long time before she’d decided to accept disappointment, then.

  Probably. Even setting aside that Sloot could perceive the passage of time in the Narrative, there were no windows in Bob’s black market meeting rooms. No clocks either.

  However long it had been, and to whatever degree Bob had reconciled acceptance and disappointment, she eventually dismissed Sloot. He went home to the Hereafter, and that’s when things got really weird; or, rather, they didn’t. Whatever Sloot had expected to see oozing, writhing, or exploding from the house as a result of Willie’s latest failure to control himself, it simply wasn’t there.

  Typical, Sloot thought. He hadn’t been looking forward to dealing with a new and terrifying manifestation of evil, but he’d have been comforted by the predictability. If human beings were creatures of habit, Sloot Peril had been the clock by which everyone else could measure their routines. An anthropologist would describe the Sloot as a pale mammal who panicked at the thought of being removed from the rut it had painstakingly worn for itself throughout the course of its life.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Sloot, who was partially relieved upon entering the house to find Willie pinned into a corner near the ceiling, spitting fire and shadow and smoke from his razor-sharp, bestial maw. Nicoleta’s hands were contorted with the magical effort of keeping him there. Bartleby was standing with his back to hers, hands similarly contorted, pinning Nan in an opposite corner.

  “Hello, Sloot,” said Nicoleta without looking up. “Be a dear and see what’s keeping Myrtle, would you?”

  “You turn him loose!” shouted Nan. She was holding a broom, which was an odd thing for a ghost to be doing, and brandishing it at Bartleby.

  “It’s for his own good,” said Bartleby. “You have to have noticed that Villie isn’t himself at the moment.”

  “You’re scaring him! He’s only a six-year-old boy!”

  “Vhat?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Sloot, leaving off the part that he had no idea how it came to pass, and hoped that he could rely on the urgency of the situation to prevent him being asked to speak any further on the topic.

  “She’s working on the circle,” said Nicoleta, with a measure of urgency.

  “Right,” said Sloot. He floated hurriedly away.

  “Keep it down in there!” Constantin had wheeled himself into the hallway. There was plenty of room to go around him, but even in his withered state he cast an imposing figure that Sloot could not bring himself to ignore.

  “Er, sorry, Lord Hapsgalt,” he said, bowing several times in rapid succession, in an apparent attempt to toady as efficiently as possible. “Just dealing with some … noise.”

  “I’ll say,” said Constantin. “I can barely hear the Quietus over that racket!”

  “No one can hear the Quietus,” Sloot couldn’t stop himself from saying. “Er, present company excluded, of course.”

  Constantin smirked. “Exceptional hearing in Hapsgalt men,” he said. “I once bagged a lion on the veldt in the middle of a moonless night because I could hear its whiskers twitching. Thought it was going to eat me, the bugger! It came down to fisticuffs in the end. I pulled off one of its haunches and beat it to death! Ruined the pelt, of course, but it’s kill or be killed in the wild. That reminds me of my first romance. Tough as nails, she was, living in a cave north of—”

  “Sloot!” shouted Nicoleta. “I can’t hold out much longer!”

  “The nerve!” shouted Constantin. “Why I ought to—”

  “I’ll deal with it, m’lord!” Sloot closed his eyes and floated as swiftly past Constantin as he could. The fact that the old man continued to rail on in the absence of an audience did surprisingly little to quell Sloot’s queasiness.

  “Sloot!” shouted Myrtle, who was adding an extra layer of runes to the outside of the circle. “Where did you go? What happened?”

  “Later,” said Sloot, who was less relieved for the excuse to avoid an uncomfortable conversation now, and more nauseated at the prospect of having to have it eventually. “Nicoleta’s having trouble with Willie, she asked me to come and find you.”

  “Just finishing up,” said Myrtle. She drew a sigil with her finger that resembled two lawyers fighting to the death over nothing at all. So, two lawyers.

  “Where did you learn how to do that?”

  “Later,” said Myrtle, the same look of uncomfortable relief washing over her as well. “Can you lure Willie in here?”

  “I’m not sure I’m suited to it.” Sloot had never been fishing, but he was familiar with the concept, and he knew what happened to the worms.

  “Come on,” said Myrtle, “he listens to you! Just talk about something he likes.”

  “He likes money,” said Sloot, “but I’m not supposed to bring that up around him.” In life, Willie’s family had amassed the sort of wealth that didn’t need to be counted, and as such were offended when conversations about finances turned serious. People in his position didn’t want to know anything about interest rates, they just wanted to know that they couldn’t make it to the bottom of their piles of money if they tried.

  The last time Sloot had tried to talk to Willie about money, the estate had just been burgled. He’d had to stop talking about what Willie could and could not “afford” so that he could explain what “afford” meant. Roman had staved off the resulting tantrum, but only just. Sloot had resolved then and there to refrain from ever broaching the subject with Willie again.

  “Try fashion!” Myrtle was having to shout over the rumbling sound that was overtaking the house. She sounded desperate and frustrated, a combination of emotions that Sloot had first experienced at the hands of his elementary school soccer coach, who’d nearly had a nervous breakdown over his failure to explain the concept of sport to young Sloot. In the end, Sloot had been allowed to take extra math courses instead of playing outside during recess. All involved were pleased with that outcome.

  “I don’t know anything about fashion.”

  There was a scream from the other room. It sounded like Nicoleta.

  “Just do it!” Myrtle shouted, her eyes starting to glow.

  “Oh my,” shouted Sloot, “would you look at the double-stitching on this waistcoat!”

  The walls started to boil. Grasping hands reached out from them. Sloot recoiled from the dragon that stormed into the room. It had three heads, each of them
Willie’s.

  “Show unto me the waistcoat,” said two of the dragon’s heads, while the third scorched the ceiling with a gout of flame. “My darkness is eternal, and I shall not be denied!”

  “Very good, m’lord,” said Sloot from beneath a well-formed cower. “We can have it here in a moment. Would you like to tell me about your favorite sock-and-shoe combinations while we wait?”

  “But yea, did the words of thy voice sing to me from yonder room,” said all three of Willie’s heads. “Lo did they beckon, for the waistcoat was thine to behold, and thou didst call its stitching good!”

  Myrtle mouthed a word to Sloot that was either “stall” or a particularly nasty swear word that implied shared ownership of one’s livestock with an uncle who wasn’t quite right in the head. She appeared to have noticed a rune that wasn’t quite right, and was frantically making it look less like a fox who’d been accused of embezzlement and more like a fox who’d been served the wrong breakfast.

  “Quite right, m’lord, quite right,” said Sloot. “Only I found a flaw under the armpit and sent it away to be corrected. I wouldn’t want to ... offend thine ... eyes! With its ... blasphemy?”

  “Thou servest me well, lowly drudge,” Willie growled. He gnashed his teeth and flapped his wings. “Lo! I shall await in this place the return of the waistcoat which is prophesied! Now, cower thee in despair as I recite unto thee my commandments on clothing the foot! Never shalt thou commit the heinous blasphemy of open-toed sandals! And thrice be my condemnation upon the head of he whose depravity weareth such with sock or stocking, no matter the season! And in the months of snow upon the ground, though loafers lie in temptation upon the shoe racks of summer, wear them not upon pain of—”

  There was a whooshing sound, accompanied by the screaming of a multitude of tortured souls as Willie was pulled into the circle by a shimmering vortex. He coughed.

  “Hey, no fair!” said Willie. He scanned the edge of the circle, and then stamped his foot in frustration. “It’s almost like you don’t want me to leave the circle.”

  “Aha!” shouted Constantin. Nan went shooting past the door in the hallway, and Constantin went wheeling after her. “I’ve got you now, you filthy coddler!” He followed that with several slurs that would prompt anyone younger to cringe and point out that he was from a different time.

  “You nearly killed me,” said Nicoleta, who’d have been sweating if the dead could manage that sort of thing.

  “You’re already dead,” said Willie. Nicoleta’s inner turmoil was apparent from the quivering, pained expression on her face. Being casually corrected by an utter nitwit was not the sort of thing she had to cope with on a regular basis, and the effort was a strain on what little strength remained in her at that moment. Were she still alive, a long hot bath would have been the preferred remedy.

  “That was far too close,” said Myrtle. She didn’t quite shout, but she got as close to it as one reasonably might without being shushed in polite company.

  “Yes, it was,” said Grumley, who seemed to have snuck into the room when no one was looking. “Fine bit of work there, Peril, managing Lord Hapsgalt all by yourself while your staff did their little bit!”

  “Our little bit?” Nicoleta balked.

  “His staff?” Myrtle did as well. They both floated there with their hands at their hips and mouths open, aghast at the rather severe devaluation of their contributions to the derring-do. Or, to put it another way, their having handled it entirely.

  “Thanks, but—” Sloot began.

  “But nothing,” said Grumley. “I had you pegged as a slouch, Peril. I was here to relieve you of your post, but this changes things a bit.”

  “A bit?”

  “A bit,” said Grumley, with the sort of edge in his voice that made it plain he doesn’t like repeating himself. “Look, I can’t simply clear the slate because you’ve had one good day. Consistency, Peril! That’s what we’re looking for.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Willie.

  “That’ll be Mr. Grumley, m’lord,” Sloot explained.

  “Just Grumley,” said Grumley. “We didn’t do ‘misters’ in my day. That’s new, and I’m not one for things that are new.”

  “It’s not that new,” said Willie. He leaned against the invisible barrier that the circle now maintained. His sleeve caught fire, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, sure,” said Grumley, “not to you hip young people. Pity you weren’t around for the Renaissance, or you’d know better. Everyone was a duke, a knight of the realm, at least three Orders of the Something-or-Other, and a notary to boot. Did away with all of that during the Tidy Reformation, didn’t we?”

  Sloot nodded. Having studied history with fanatic devotion, he knew that the Old Country has gone through a Renaissance, an Enlightenment, roughly a dozen Reformations, and a single Dark Age that started right after the Later Antiquity, and is due to end any day now.

  “’Sirs’ and ‘madams’ is where that all got started,” Grumley huffed. “Mark my words, it’s only a matter of time before you can’t say hello to someone in under half an hour without offending them.”

  “Oh dear,” said Sloot.

  “It vasn’t that bad,” said Bartleby, who’d come in with Nicoleta. “The vitch burnings, now those vere bad.”

  “Serves ‘em right,” Grumley spat. “Anyone goes around wearing that much black is up to no good.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Willie. “What’s wrong with a splash of color, unless you’re going to one of the fancy parties where everyone in the Serpents is wearing all black, and they bring in the ladies wearing all white, and then there’s chanting, and then you never see them again?”

  “Ooo, sounds vicked,” said Bartleby.

  “That’s enough, Lord Hapsgalt,” said Grumley, as politely as possible. “We are standing among the uninitiated, you know.”

  “What? I don’t think so.”

  Grumley was right, of course. He and Willie were the only two people in the room who were members of the Serpents of the Earth, as far as Sloot was aware. Bartleby wasn’t wearing one of their silver rings, two snakes coiled around a black stone, but it was the Hereafter, after all. Maybe necromancers had to remove their jewelry before they crossed over.

  “There’s a place for you, of course,” said Grumley, turning to look at Sloot.

  “For me?”

  “If you play your cards right,” said Grumley, mistaking Sloot’s revulsion at the thought of taking on additional loyalties for the excitement he’d expected. “But you’re going to have to keep a firmer hand on things around here.”

  “Er, okay.”

  “You’re a capable young ghost, Peril. And you seem to have hired some decent servants here. You just may prove yourself yet.”

  “Now just hang on a minute,” said Myrtle, who’d technically been a servant of the household at one point in her life, but was now a demon capable of making bargains where souls were the currency. Being called a servant by a ghost who probably amounted to a month’s salary was sure to rankle.

  “An excellent point,” said Willie, who was now wearing a top hat with a crown in place of the hat band. “Have one of the servants stand in the circle for me, would you? I’ve got dinner reservations.”

  “You’ve got to stay in the circle, m’lord.” Sloot smiled and bowed, hoping that Willie wouldn’t break through the circle’s barrier and devour him, or something worse. It could definitely be something worse. He could give Sloot additional duties, perhaps delivering in-depth evaluations of haircuts to people he had to see every day.

  “But what about my dinner reservations?”

  “The dead don’t dine,” said Grumley. “Take my word for it. I haven’t done since I keeled over in my soup.”

  “You were poisoned?” asked Sloot.

  “Stabbed,” said Grumley. “Although now that you mention it, I don’t know for certain that I wasn’t poisoned. The knife may simply have beaten it to the punch. Well, that’
ll haunt me for a while.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No matter. Keep up the good work, Peril.” And with that, Grumley disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  “You’ve got some nerve, Peril!” Nicoleta’s hands were still on her hips.

  “I honestly don’t think that’s true,” he replied. Sloot had once tried to work up the nerve to tell his mother that the other boys were being mean to him at school. He was very fond of tattling, thanks to a series of puppet shows put on by the Ministry of Propaganda. They insisted that tattling was the most fun a young person could have, but in this case, he’d decided against it. His mother was Sladia Peril, after all. She’d have made him stand up for himself, or worse: gone to school and stood up for him. That was just the sort of thing that parents went in for, protecting their children from harm to the severe detriment of their standing in the social hierarchy. The bottom tier of said hierarchy was composed entirely of mama’s boys, kids who read for pleasure during recess, and that one weird kid who ate his own boogers.

  Sloot didn’t need any further social ostracism. Even the booger kid would’ve stopped talking to him.

  “It’s not important,” said Myrtle. “Sloot’s in enough trouble with Mister Grum— with Grumley. Let him have this one.”

  “Oh, fine,” said Nicoleta. “But it’s the principle of the matter, you know?”

  “I know,” said Sloot. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “You’ll find a way to make it up to me,” said Nicoleta. No, not said. Directed.

  “Yes ma’am,” said Sloot.

  Without another word, Myrtle took Sloot by the hand and led him from the room. She didn’t have to say anything, of course. Sloot was less of a “what’s going on here” sort of person, and more of an “excuse me, I’m terribly sorry” sort, who’d apologize for having left his foot where you wanted to step.

  “Start talking,” said Myrtle. She wheeled on him as soon as they were alone, hands on her hips.