Soul Remains

by Sam Hooker

  “Who said philosophy?” demanded Arthur, who was suddenly in the center of the room, fists turned upward in front of him. “Debate me, you cowards! One at a time or all at once, I’ll have the lot of you!”

  “Who the devil are you?” asked Hans.

  “Who are any of us?” Arthur howled. “Identity is nothing more than the continuity of self as perceived by the ego!” It had obviously been a very long time since he’d gotten to debate philosophy with anyone. He had a lot of pent-up vitriol and was eager to spew it wherever it might land, regardless of what damage might result, like a fire hose in a china shop.

  They went around in circles for what felt like hours to Sloot, though he had no way of knowing. Even if the concept of time were properly perceptible in the Hereafter, he couldn’t shake the feeling of drowsiness. His thoughts kept drifting off into the nonsensical, causing him to wonder things like whether five toes per foot was really the optimal arrangement.

  “There you are,” said Myrtle, who suddenly appeared in the room. “I told you to wait for me!”

  “Did you?” Sloot tried to remember, but it was no good. He yawned. “Sorry, not sure I had much choice in the matter.”

  “Never mind, what’s going on here?”

  “We’ve very nearly come to an accord on the moral relativism inherent in any financial transaction,” said Arthur. “It really only makes sense if you’ve heard all of the arguments. I’ll start from the beginning. Let’s say you have a partial monopoly on the production of liquor in a religious separatist society, and—”

  “Never mind that too,” said Myrtle. “Release Sloot at once, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “I think not,” said Grumley. “He has committed crimes against the—wait, does she know about the ... ?”

  “The Serpents of the Earth?” hazarded Myrtle.

  “Right,” said Grumley. “We just need to hear his testimony before we can cast him into the Well of the Void, which I’m just now realizing has nothing to do with the conversation we’ve been having for the last ... however long. Who are you, anyway?”

  “And we’re back to identity!” shouted Arthur. “Fine, I’ll recap. Separating the id from the ego—”

  “Enough!” shouted Myrtle. “You’ll not be casting Sloot’s soul into that Well under any circumstances.”

  “Oh, no?” scoffed Grumley. “And who are you to make demands here, young lady?”

  “Don’t young lady me, you old git! But to answer your question, I am the rightful owner of Sloot Peril’s soul.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself. I can have a notary verify it if necessary.”

  “Can you?” asked Grumley with a smirk. “I’ve heard you lot are on the outs with the notaries at the moment, owing to some particularly brutal torture?”

  “He wouldn’t stand for anything less,” said Myrtle. “Anyway, I have special dispensation.”

  Myrtle snapped her fingers and three documents appeared, scrolls hanging in midair before Grumley.

  “What are these?” he demanded, searching each of his pockets before finding his reading glasses atop his head.

  “Certification of Demonic Jurisdiction,” said Myrtle, pointing to one of the documents. “That one’s the Binding Soul Transfer for Sloot Peril, and the one you’re reading now is a standard waiver of all rights to argue with me on the matter, to which agreement is only contingent upon having read it.”

  “What? That’s diabolical!”

  “Technically, it’s Infernal,” said Myrtle, “but I take your meaning.”

  Grumley fumed. He opened his mouth as if to scathe her with a retort, but he must have known that the penalties for breach of an Infernal waiver were painfully severe.

  “Very well,” said Grumley, “he’s free to go.”

  The shackles suddenly disappeared from Sloot’s wrists, and he fell. Fortunately, before he fell into the Well of the Void where he would suffer for eternity, it disappeared as well. Sloot collided with the stone floor which, according to the Agreement, warranted an “ouch!”

  “You can’t be serious,” cried Hans, his jowls waggling under the force of his consternation. He was the sort of person who defined “justice” as persons other than himself receiving the most gruesome possible punishment available to them for any reason, regardless of insignificant details like “innocence” or “guilt.”

  “I wish I wasn’t,” Grumley scowled, “but her paperwork is in order. Sloot Peril is released from duty in disgrace, but he shan’t be remanded to the Well of the Void.”

  Myrtle put a finger to her chin thoughtfully. “I’d fire him in disgrace in verso perpetuity, if I were you.”

  “What?” As pleased as Sloot was to have escaped the Well of the Void, he’d never been fired from anything. He’d further never been fired in disgrace, and he’d certainly never been fired in verso perpetuity, whatever that meant.

  “She makes a good point,” said Hans. “Firing him in disgrace in verso perpetuity puts a tidy bow on the whole affair, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” said Geralt, “but I thought she was on Peril’s side.”

  “As did I,” Sloot mumbled weakly.

  “Fine,” said Myrtle, “if you’d like to provide him a reference for his next employer.”

  “Out of the question!” Grumley’s moustaches flared. “Peril is free to go, but he must leave this place! He is no longer employed by Lord Hapsgalt, having been fired in disgrace in verso perpetuity!”

  Suddenly, Sloot found himself slumped against a tree just outside the house.

  “Well, that was quick,” said Myrtle. She was sitting on the ground beside him.

  “What just happened?” asked Sloot, stifling a yawn.

  “You were released from Willie’s service,” said Myrtle with a satisfied smirk.

  The contract! Sloot had nearly forgotten. In exchange for his soul, Myrtle said she’d help him break the bonds of his entanglements. He no longer had to work for Willie or the Serpents of the Earth! That just left Uncle, Carpathian Intelligence, and Winking Bob.

  “Thanks,” said Sloot. “But what’s ‘in verso perpetuity,’ and why’d you tell me to fire me in it? It sounded mean.”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Now, you sit tight for a moment, we’re expected in Castle Ulfhaven.”

  The Carpathian Agreement

  “It just seems like a waste.” Myrtle’s gaze swept back and forth around the cavernous war chamber of Castle Ulfhaven. Her voice echoed in the darkness.

  “It would be more wasteful not to use it at all,” Roman mused.

  There wasn’t a spot of dust to be found in the circular room because the servants of Castle Ulfhaven weren’t fools. They knew the penalty for sloppy work, or rather they didn’t, and were keen to keep it that way. The only sign that anyone had ever been in the room at all were the innumerable gouges and bloodstains on the stone floor, the evidence of centuries-old disagreements that had been settled the old-fashioned way.

  Bloodstains left on stone didn’t count as sloppy work. They were a warning.

  Only a few torches had been lit along one section of the wall, and chairs had been brought in.

  “How’s the Domnitor getting on?” asked Myrtle. “That was who Vlad had left in the dungeons before the big dust-up with the pile of goblins, wasn’t it?”

  Long may he reign, Sloot thought. He was here! In this very castle, at this very moment!

  “It was,” whispered Roman. “I’ve moved him to more comfortable accommodations, but don’t tell Vlad. She vastly overestimates what it takes to intimidate a pubescent boy.”

  Sloot looked at Vlad, who was gripping the arms of her chair hard enough to splinter them.

  “Chairs.” Vlad grimaced and ground her teeth.

  According to Roman, this would mark the first war council in Carpathian history where the attendees would remain seated, and their blades would remain sheathed. It was a very sensible request made by the fairies, though it ha
d put Vlad in a very dark mood. Not that Vlad was ever not in a dark mood. Darker than usual, then.

  There were chairs beside Vlad’s throne for Myrtle, Roman, and Bartleby. Vlad didn’t see the point in providing chairs to ghosts. Sloot normally wouldn’t have either, but he was still so deeply weary, Gregor having drained so much of his vitality away.

  “Stop slouching,” Nicoleta hissed. She didn’t seem to mind the no-chairs-for-ghosts thing.

  “I can’t help it,” Sloot yawned.

  “That’s bad,” said Bartleby, giving Sloot a worried look. It differed very little from his haunted ennui look. Sloot could only tell the difference because Bartleby was looking at him. The haunted ennui look always seemed to be directed toward something very far away, or possibly not there at all.

  Nicoleta waved him off. “He’s just tired,” she said.

  “And vhen vas the last time you vere tired?”

  Nicoleta’s squint of remembrance gave way to wide-eyed realization. “That’s really bad, isn’t it?”

  Bartleby nodded.

  “Hmmm?” Sloot only asked because he noticed the pair of them staring at him in a very something-is-terribly-wrong way. Sloot was used to things being terribly wrong, but was only alarmed when everyone else noticed it too.

  The fairies were taking their sweet time filing ceremoniously into the war chamber. There were quite a lot of them in attendance. Even so, the door was wide enough that they all could have entered at once. The fact that they didn’t had set Vlad’s teeth on edge.

  “Can’t you do anything?” Myrtle asked.

  “I’m not really supposed to,” Bartleby whispered. He glanced at Vlad, who had already shot one annoyed look in his direction. With Vlads the Invader, one was generally all it took.

  “Supposed to?” Nicoleta was aghast, a description which may or may not have counted as offensive to the dead. “Look at him! He’s fading away!”

  She was right. Since becoming a ghost, Sloot had taken on a certain translucence. Now, though, he practically had to move around to keep from fading into the background.

  “Don’t tell me this is where you draw the line in meddling with dark forces beyond mortal comprehension.” Nicoleta’s tone had shifted into mockery beginning with the word “meddling.”

  “Ugh, fine,” said Bartleby. He looked around, though for what, Sloot couldn’t fathom. He appeared to find it, whatever it was. Then he locked onto Vlad with a nervous stare and produced his wand as surreptitiously as possible. He gave it a couple of flicks with his wrist, and a gasp went up from the fairies that had made it into the room so far.

  “What’s wrong?” asked the voice that had come out of Sloot, when he noticed that everyone was looking at him in horror.

  “Vicked!”

  “Something’s not right.” The voice that had come out of Sloot was far too low and menacing. He felt off-balance. A bit more alert, but still not quite right. He looked down to see that his long, jagged claws had returned to their standard level of translucence, but he was positive that they’d been hands before.

  “That’s what Willie looked like before,” said Myrtle.

  Sloot’s claws went to his forehead, then felt their way up a pair of double recurved horns. He started to panic.

  At least Vlad wasn’t looking at him. That’s not to say that she hadn’t noticed. A lifetime of fighting with the ghosts of her ancestors had imbued Vlad with an uncanny awareness of everything happening around her at all times. But she was still fixed on the fairies in a classic display of intimidation.

  Vlad wasn’t simply not looking at Sloot, she was pointedly not looking at Sloot. The intensity of her absence of regard for him was like having rented prime advertising space to declare that she didn’t consider Sloot a threat. Sloot was positive that he looked menacing, but definitely not to the degree that Vlad would be seen taking notice.

  “What did you do?” Nicoleta whispered as loudly as she could.

  “There’s blood everyvhere,” whispered Bartleby, gesturing around the room. “I didn’t think anyone vould mind if I used a bit to perk Sloot up.”

  Nicoleta rolled her eyes. “You mean the centuries-old blood of generals staining the ancient stones of the Ulfhaven war chamber?”

  “Oh, right!” Bartleby laughed a very villainous laugh. You had to take lessons to have a laugh that sinister, Sloot was sure of it.

  “That’s not permanent, is it?” Myrtle regarded Sloot askance.

  “I vouldn’t think so,” said Bartleby. “Just a bit too much savagery in the blood. It should vear off after a vhile.”

  “A vile what?” asked Roman.

  “A while,” said Nicoleta.

  “Ah.” Roman nodded.

  “Silence!” Vlad snarled over her shoulder. Then she turned back to the fairies. “Proceed.”

  By the time they were all in, there were enough fairies in to encircle the room. They didn’t though, as their voices would have been impossible to hear at such a distance. They used a bit of sorcery to construct a tiny amphitheater like the one they’d used in Abbatoir Park, set just outside the Invader’s easy reach. They could have gotten a bit closer, but they were smarter than that.

  “Thank you very much for inviting us into Castle Ulfhaven,” said King Lilacs, hovering at Vlad’s eye level on his fluttering gossamer wings. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Enough with the pleasantries,” Vlad barked. “We are assembled today to take up arms against the looming threat—”

  “Excuse me, please.” Lilacs raised an index finger. “Point of order, but could we observe parliamentary procedure, please? Proper salutations will go a long way toward mending fences, General Defenestratia.”

  “Parliamentary procedure?” Vlad grimaced as though she’d just been fed a pile of manure that had somehow managed to go bad. “In Carpathia? Never! My ancestors never would have borne such an affront to their sovereignty, and neither shall I!”

  “But what about my sovereignty, if you please? I’m a king too, you know.”

  “I have no use for kings,” said Vlad. “Bags of guts who festoon their brows with gold. Your crown will not keep your head on your shoulders here, fairy!”

  The tiny amphitheater erupted in a din of well-tailored outrage. A sea of angry faces shouted at Vlad to “watch your tongue, please!” and “take that back, please!”

  “That’s enough, please!” Lilacs’ voice rose above the din, thanks to his tall—for a fairy’s—crown’s secondary purpose as a megaphone.

  Convenient and economical, thought Sloot. He also wondered what King Lilacs’ guts would taste like under the light of a blood moon. He flinched and hoped that the side effects of his necromantic transfusion would wear off soon.

  “I haven’t spoken to a Carpathian ruler in nine generations.” Lilacs set the crown back onto his head. “Your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother was just as quick to anger, but only after several hours and as many cups of Carpathian Blood Brandy.”

  Sloot remembered the Blood Brandy. It was made from bear’s blood and fermented in hollowed oak trees. According to Carpathian sommeliers, it wasn’t fit to drink until the tree slumped over dead.

  “Point of order, if you please.” General Dandelion stood. “Technically speaking, wouldn’t that make Vlad the Twenty-Eighth less quick to anger?”

  “I suppose it would,” said Lilacs. “Thank you for the clarification, General.”

  “You’re welcome, Your Majesty.”

  There was a round of polite applause from the amphitheater.

  “This is intolerable,” grumbled Vlad.

  Roman leaned in to whisper to Vlad. “Yet it must be tolerated, Your Dominance. Even if Ashkar—or Gregor, or whatever else he decides to call himself—had properly perished when your hammer made a stain of him, it would still take years to amass a new army. We don’t have that long!”

  “There’s got to be another way.” Vlad pounded the arm of her throne with a mailed fist. “What would my f
orebears say if they found out I made peace in the war chamber?”

  “They won’t,” said Nicoleta. She and Bartleby had placed a ward on the Black Smiler just outside the chamber door that would keep the Lebendervlad from entering. Black Smilers, Sloot recalled, were made from the charred skulls of vanquished enemies, stuffed with demonic larva, mounted on spears and enchanted so that they glowed a sickly yellow. They were the magical totems that permitted the spirits of the thirty-six former Vlads the Invader to roam about the castle in their ghostly forms, don suits of armor to share their martial knowledge with the current Vlad, and occasionally forget that they were dead and challenge her for the throne.

  Vlad the Thirteenth did that on a regular basis. He’d taken one too many hammer blows to the helmet in his day.

  “We will happily join forces with you to keep the goblins out of Carpathia,” said Lilacs. “These lands are our home as well, and we would hate to see them overrun by the congresses in the Dark.”

  “That settles it then,” said Vlad.

  “However,” Lilacs continued, “we need a concession from you before we have an alliance.”

  “How dare you?” shouted Vlad, leaning forward in her throne. “I am Vlad Defenestratia, I concede nothing! My ancestors quelled this land, and have ruled it since—”

  “I remember,” shouted Lilacs, using his crown as a megaphone again, so that he could match Vlad’s impressive volume. “I have watched the line of Defenestratia since the first of you threw that fellow out of his tower. That wasn’t very nice, even if he did have it coming, but I don’t hold that against you personally.”

  Vlad drew in a hot and ragged breath, the sort that was destined to result in a tirade of swear words so vulgar they could make steel blush. Before said tirade could trumpet its charge with a disparaging word about Lilacs’ mother, Roman place a hand gingerly on her forearm.

  “Forgive me, Your Dominance,” he whispered, “but perhaps you’d consider hearing them out? They’re fairies, after all. It’s unlikely they’ll ask for anything too grand.”

  “Wouldn’t they?”