The Necromancer's Nephew (15 page)

"See you later, Garrett," Warren said with a frown.

"See ya, Warren," Garrett waved goodbye.

The two ghouls loped away, letting themselves out through the basement, and Tinjin and Garrett walked back down to the workshop.

"Was that a brain in the jar?" Garrett asked.

"Yes," Uncle said, "the brain of a world traveller who had experienced a great many things in his life."

"Why do ghouls like the brains so much?" Garrett asked.

"I thought you knew," Uncle said, "
g
houls
can taste memories."

"So they know whatever the dead person was thinking before they died?"

"It's not that precise," Uncle said. He stepped up to the worktable and lifted the sack that Warren had left there, spilling its contents onto the table.

Garrett drew back a little as a dozen human forearms in varying states of decay rolled across the scarred wood.

"A ghoul who eats a brain experiences the emotions that remain burned into the mind, even after death. The brain of a man who has lived a good life is the greatest delicacy to a ghoul."

"That's kind of disgusting," Garrett said.

"As opposed to what we do?" Uncle said, gesturing toward the pile of rotting limbs.

"What
are
we doing, Uncle?"

Uncle Tinjin smiled. "We are interrogating the prisoners, Garrett."

"Huh?"

Uncle reached and picked up one of the forearms, holding it up for Garrett to inspect. "What do you notice about all of these arms?" Uncle asked.

Garrett looked them over for a few seconds. "They all have tattoos," he said. Every one of the severed forearms had been marked with lines of
Gloaran
text, written in a language that he did not recognize.

"What else?"

"They are all right arms."

"Correct. And are all the tattoos the same?"

Garrett stepped closer to the table, rolling one over with his finger to get a better look at it. "Some of them are the same, but some of the lines are different. Some of them have more lines than others."

"Excellent. Can you hazard a guess as to what these marks might mean?"

"I don't know."

"Think, Garrett."

"Uh... maybe some of these men were more important than others?"

"Implying?"

"You said they w
ere prisoners," Garrett said, "S
o, are they Chadirians?"

"Well done," Uncle grinned, "These are the right forearms of Chadiri legionnaires. The tattoos are liturgies of their past campaigns. Read a war priest's arm and you know what battles he's fought."

“Where did they all come from?” Garrett asked, “Did the ghouls kill all these soldiers?”

Uncle shook his head. “These were brought back from the front lines. The Sisterhood needs a fresh supply of bodies to create new skeletons for their army, so the corpses of any slain enemies are carted back to Wythr to be reanimated as skeletons.”

“Oh, so they gave us the arms from some of the dead guys?”

“Not exactly,” Uncle said, “I had Bargas… acquire these pieces from the officer in charge of processing the bodies.”

“Will we get in trouble for that?”

Uncle shrugged. “The Sisterhood might notice a slight increase in the number of one-armed skeletons this week, but, as long as most of the body is there, I doubt they’ll care. The priestesses value quantity more than quality in their work.”

“Oh,” Garrett said, looking at the pile of forearms, “I still don’t understand why you wanted them.”

“I want to see where these men have been,” Uncle said. He began to walk around the table, picking up arms and reading the lines of text tattooed into their skin.

“Purificator of Brenhaven, city of idolatry,” Uncle read aloud. He snorted with disgust and tossed the arm back on the table to land near Garrett. “Looks like you’ve earned at least a small measure of justice.”

Garrett stared down at the dead man’s arm. That soldier had been one of the men who had destroyed his home. That hand may have held the sword that slew his brother. A cold chill ran through him, and he pushed such dark thoughts back behind the gray wall of silent hope that his family was still alive somewhere.

“Now there’s something!” Uncle muttered, holding a particularly badly decomposed arm up to the lamp, “Wolf-slayer of Kriessland… Hewer of the Kaldoran horde. This soldier fought in the northernmost reaches of the Empire.”

He picked up another arm. “Hah hah!” he said, “This one studied with the monks of the silver sun!”

“Who are they?” Garrett asked.

Uncle chuckled. “Well, if you ever meet a man in gray robes wearing a silver sun talisman on his chest, you probably shouldn’t tell him that you’re a necromancer. They’ve sworn to cleanse our corruption from the world.”

“Are they Chadirians too?”

“They joined the empire willingly and pay lip service to Malleatus, but their true passion is the destruction of the undead. A very dangerous bunch of fanatics. Fortunately, there aren’t many of them.”

Uncle dropped the arm he was holding and picked up another. “Oh, this is sad,” he said.

“What is?”

Uncle held the arm out so that Garrett could better see it. “Look at the finger,” he said.

Garrett saw the man had a curling vine tattooed around his ring finger. “He’s the only one like that, isn’t he?”

Uncle nodded. “This man was betrothed. He was probably a Jastaan. It is their custom. This is only the first half of the tattoo. He was going to be married within a year… well, within a year of whenever the Chadirians conscripted him and forced him to travel far from his home and kill other hopeful young men for the glory of the blood god.

“There’s probably some poor girl huddled in a basement right now, praying to her seal-headed goddess at an outlaw shrine, praying that her beloved will return.” Uncle’s voice had grown cold, and he let the arm drop to the table. He paced the length of the room a few times and stared at the wall.

“Uncle, what are you thinking?” Garrett asked.

Uncle turned and looked at him. “I’m thinking the Chadiri have committed reserves from every corner of the Empire. I’m thinking they mean to end us.”

Garrett and Caleb walked up the curving, flower-lined lane between the tall brick townhouses of Queensgarden. Max Zara and Cenick, as well as several other young necromancers had taken up residence in the district, much to the consternation of many of their more respectable neighbors.

Garrett nodded and bid good day to a well-dressed merchant and his wife as they passed him on the broad sidewalk. The merchant only scowled in response while his wife stared in horror at Garrett's zombie. As they passed, Caleb stumbled and bumped against the merchant.

"Keep that thing on a leash!" the merchant shouted, shoving Caleb away. He walked away, whispering angrily to his wife and wiping his hands on his waistcoat.

"Sorry!" Garrett called after them.

Caleb made a little noise that sounded like a muffled chuckle. He was holding something in his right hand.

"What's that?" Garrett asked.

Caleb lifted his arm stiffly and his fingers slowly opened to reveal a small velvet pouch lying in the palm of his hand.

Garrett's eyes went wide and he snatched the coin purse from Caleb's grasp. He ran after the couple shouting, "Wait, sir! Wait!"

The merchant wheeled to face him, red-faced and sputtering with rage. "What is it?"

"You dropped this, sir," Garrett gasped, holding out the heavy sack of coins.

The merchant's eyes went wide, and his hand went to his pocket, finding it empty. He tried to speak, but only a sputtering noise came out. He grabbed the purse from Garrett's hand and stormed off, his wife hurrying to catch up with him.

Caleb waited obediently for Garrett's return. Garrett jogged back to where the zombie stood. "Don't do that!" Garrett said.

Caleb gave a low groan and bowed his head.

Garrett stared at him for a long moment. "You used to be a thief, didn't you?"

Caleb only stared at the ground in response.

"I think you
do
remember things," Garrett said.

Caleb showed no sign that he understood at all.

"Hmn," Garrett said, "Let's go."

They continued up the lane toward Zara's house. Garrett slowed to a stop when he saw a richly engraved wooden carriage parked in front of Zara's door. Pulled by four black horses and painted an iridescent green, it could only belong to a priestess of the temple. Two Templar guards in green livery stood on either side of the front door. The men wore the white worm of Mauravant inscribed on their ceremonial breastplates.

The Templars watched him silently as he moved again to approach the door
.

"Greetings, sirs," Garrett said, "I have a message for Maximilian Zara."

"You will have to wait," one of the men said.

"Oh, do you know how long?"

"No," the guardsman said.

Garrett chewed his lip. He could visit Cenick's house first. The Neshite necromancer lived only a few houses down.

"I'll come back later then," Garrett said.

The Templars only grunted in response.

Just as Garrett turned to go, Zara's front door swung open, and a smiling young woman emerged, dressed in a green silk tunic, black velvet hose, and high doeskin boots. A platinum coronet, bearing the worm-shaped symbol of Mauravant, held back her
tightly braided
fiery red hair. Her eyes flashed, emerald green, and full of mirth, and she laughed a clear, honest laugh at something Max had said. The dashing young necromancer followed close behind her, grinning at his own cleverness.

"Garrett!" Max called out upon seeing him, "You finally get a chance to meet the high priestess!"

Garrett saw the Templars' looks of disapproval, but the priestess only laughed and swatted Zara with one of the gloves she held bundled in her hand. "I'm only an acolyte," she said, looking to Garrett as she walked down the front steps, "Are you the brilliant young necromancer that Max has been telling me about?"

Garrett moved his jaw, but seemed unable to form sound. The priestess projected a kind of overwhelming warmth. He understood immediately why Max found excuses to spend so much time with her.

"This is the one!" Max said, "And I see that he brought his zombie along to show you. They say it earned the highest marks for motility that the registrar had ever awarded."

"Really?" she said, tilting her head with an impressed look on her face.

"Serepheni, this is Garrett, the next Ramaan'thul, unless I misjudge him," Max said with a flourish of his hand.

"I'm honored to meet a future Death Lord," the priestess said, grinning as she bowed to Garrett.

Garrett recovered enough of his wits to return the bow, though with far less grace.

Max turned to him next. "Garrett, this is Sister Serepheni Prynne, a rising star, most radiant of Mauravant's daughters."

"Pleased to meet you, my lady," Garrett said.

Serepheni smiled at him. She could tell him the sky was green, and he would believe her
.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I have business at the temple, and I can't stay to chat. Perhaps I will have a chance to see you again when we return from the campaign."

"If the Chadiri haven't boiled us all for witchery by then," Max exclaimed with mock dread.

Serepheni grimaced and slapped him across the arm with her gloves.

"Ow!" he said, "The first wound of the great expedition is mine! Is there to be some sort of ceremony to commemorate my heroism... a medal perhaps?"

"This is going to be a long campaign," she sighed, mounting the buckboard of her carriage. The two stern-faced Templars climbed up to take their p
ositions at the rei
ns as she settled into the back seat.

"Farewell, my fair generaless," Max said, waving his hand slowly overhead.

"I'll see you in the morning Max," she said, "Try not to be late."

"Have I ever failed you, my lady?" he asked.

Serepheni rolled her eyes and turned to Garrett. "Congratulations on your zombie. I hope to see him perform next time!"

Garrett waved numbly as the carriage pulled away. He walked over to join Max on the doorstep as they watched her go.

Max spoke without looking at him. "Amazing, isn't she?"

"Yeah," Garrett said.

They stepped inside the townhouse to find Max's entryway a bit more brightly lit and cleaner than Garrett was accustomed to seeing it. The scent of lavender hung in the air. A pair of zombies stepped obediently forward, dressed in red robes and wearing masks of polished white wood
.

"What happened to the spooky black robes?" Garrett asked.

Max shrugged. "The place needed a little cheering up," he said.