Songreaver (10 page)

“I, um,” Garrett hesitated, scanning the shop
for any sign of Caleb, or anyone else at all. It seemed empty but
for the racks and racks of expensive suits and coats.

“We are looking for a… friend of ours,” Marla
said, “that may have been, accidentally sold to you at an
auction.”

Marigold looked confused, then his face went
suddenly pale. “Oh, no!” he gasped, “I knew that it had to be a
mistake!”

“A mistake?” Garrett said, “Is Caleb all
right?”

Marigold blinked. “Caleb? Is that his
name?”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, “though actually his
real name was
Kurtz
, I think, before he died.”

A low moan came from somewhere in the back of
the shop.

“Caleb?” Garrett called out.

The moan answered, louder now.

Mister Marigold gave them both a pained look.
“I’ll take you to him,” he sighed.

He led them through a small door behind a
curtain into an extremely cluttered back room. There, among the
stacked bolts of cloth and spools of thread, stood Caleb the
zombie, draped from head to toe in a half-finished suit of powder
blue silk.

Caleb turned his milky eyes to Garrett with a
piteous expression of relief and groaned again.

“Hi, Caleb,” Garrett said.

Caleb lifted his hands stiffly from his sides
with a long ribbon of measuring tape draped over his left shoulder
and down to his wrist.

Garrett stifled a laugh. Marla hid her smile
with the back of her hand.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?” Marigold
asked.

“Huh?” Garrett said, “Oh no! It was just a
mistake, and you’ll get back whatever money you paid for him.” He
pulled the writ of recovery from his satchel and handed it to the
tailor.

“Ah,” Marigold said, his face gloomy, “I knew
this deal was too good.”

“What do you mean?” Marla asked.

He smiled at her. “It’s just that, for a long
time I was thinking about getting someone to help me with the
fitting. I had an old wooden mannequin that I brought with me from
my homeland, but… I thought something like this might help me work
faster.”

“Where are you from?” Garrett asked.

“Muldenia,” he answered.

Garrett looked at Marla. She looked
puzzled.

“Pardon me, but isn’t that part of the
Chadirian Empire?” she asked.

Defiance flashed in Marigold’s eyes.
“Muldenia is Muldenia!” he said, then his face softened, “but, yes,
you are right… please don’t hold that against us.”

Marla tilted her head slightly. “Muldenia was
conquered by the Chadiri nearly a century ago,” she said, “When did
you leave?”

Marigold looked at the floor. “Six years
ago,” he said, “they passed an…
edict
. They said that all…
true Chadiri
should show their devotion in every aspect of
their lives… even the way they dressed. They outlawed every color
but red and black.”

“They outlawed colors?” Garrett scoffed.

Marigold nodded, his eyes brimming with
tears. “They passed around this chart to all of the town’s tailors
and dye merchants, which shade of red was acceptable and which was
not. It was insane!”

Garrett laughed. “Yeah, they really like
red!”

Caleb gave them a pleading groan.

“Have they ever done anything like this
before?” Marla asked.

Mister Marigold shook his head. “Not in all
my days, nor my father’s days, nor his father’s. If you bow to the
altar of Malleatus and praise his name on the holy days, who cares
what color you wear the rest of the year? At least that’s the way
it used to be, now...” He wiped a tear from his cheek with the
corner of his ruffled sleeve. “I couldn’t live in a world with only
one color. You understand?”

Garrett gave him a sympathetic smile, and
Marla patted him on the shoulder.

Caleb moaned loudly. Garrett couldn’t be
certain, but he thought the zombie was rolling his eyes.

Marigold turned, sniffling slightly. “He was
such a good helper… such good balance,” he said.

“You think so?” Garrett asked, “I was telling
my Uncle the same thing. It really seems like he’s more… human than
the other zombies.”

“Ah, so you made this zombie?” Marigold
said.

Garrett nodded, smiling proudly.

“Very fine work!” Marigold said, “Perhaps I
might purchase Paulio here from you, in the proper fashion?”

“
Paulio?
” Garrett asked.

“Oh, pardon me,” Marigold said, “Just the
name I had given… Caleb here.”

Caleb made a noise that might have been a
whimper. The measuring tape slipped from his slumping
shoulders.

“Oh… sorry,” Garrett said, “Caleb really
isn’t for sale… he’s my friend.”

Mister Marigold nodded. “I understand,” he
said, “Though, if it is ever possible, I would be interested in
commissioning another such fine zombie from you… if that is
possible.”

“Oh… yeah,” Garrett said, “My Uncle makes
zombies all the time. He should be back in a few days, and I can
give you his address.”

Marigold smiled and shook his head. “No,” he
said, “I want you to do it. A master always recognizes the work of
another master!” He clapped his hand on Garrett’s arm.

Garrett blushed. He nodded. “Yes sir, I’d be
glad to,” he said. He thought for a moment. “Um, I’m not sure
exactly when I could though. I’d need a body, and my ghoul friend
is out of town right now.”

Marigold burst into laughter, then, seeing
Garrett’s blank expression, cleared his throat and begged pardon.
He looked, sadly at Caleb, still draped in bits of blue silk laced
with chalk lines. “I wish I could have finished this last piece,”
he sighed, “Paulio was such a good helper.”

“Well,” Garrett said, “I guess we could wait
here while you finished.

Mister Marigold’s eyes brightened. “You would
do that for me?” he asked.

Garrett looked at Marla, and she nodded.

Marigold’s eyes glittered with happy
tears.

Caleb threw back his head and let out a
hopeless moan.

****

“It just seems odd to me that the Chadirians
would make such a radical change in policy,” Marla said as they
walked together down the avenue in the flickering light of the
street lamps.

The other shoppers gave them a wide berth,
but Garrett didn’t care about their stares anymore. He had Caleb
back.

The gangly zombie walked alongside Garrett,
looking for all the world like a pallbearer in his new suit of gray
wool, woven with an understated herringbone pattern. Mister
Marigold had insisted on giving it to him as a parting gift.
Garrett had almost accepted the tailor’s original offer of the
bright, salmon-colored tunic and pants, but something in Caleb’s
expression had caused him to insist on the gray.

“You don’t find that odd?” Marla asked.

“What?” Garrett asked.

“That the Chadiri would suddenly make
everyone start wearing the same color?” she said.

Garrett shrugged. “I dunno. They’re crazy.
What do you expect?”

Marla frowned. “But why now?” she asked,
“What has changed that they would do this? From what I’ve read
about the Chadiri, they hold to tradition with an almost fanatical
devotion… well, I suppose it
is
fanatical, they being
fanatics, after all… my point is, they don’t
do
new
things.”

“Maybe they’re afraid we’re winning and they
need to… I don’t know… get everybody more excited about
Malleatus?”

Marla shook her head. “This was six years
ago,” she said, “We weren’t winning then.”

“Maybe somebody new got put in charge of
telling everybody how to dress,” Garrett said, “and they really,
really like red.”

Marla chewed her lip. “Yes, that does seem
the obvious conclusion, doesn’t it?”

“Really?” Garrett said. Most of the time, he
just kept Marla talking long enough for her to figure things out
for herself. He wasn’t used to coming up with the answers on his
own

Marla laughed. “Yes, but does it go deeper
than that?” she asked.

“I don’t…” Garrett’s voice trailed off when
he realized that Caleb wasn’t walking beside him anymore,
“Hey!”

They turned to see Caleb standing in front of
an alley they had just passed. The zombie was staring down the
alleyway, his head tilted slightly to one side, and swaying gently
on his feet.

“Caleb,” Garrett called out, “What are you
doing?”

Caleb did not seem to notice.

Garrett and Marla walked back to where Caleb
was standing and peered into the deep shadows of the narrow
alleyway. They saw nothing but the empty cobblestone lane and a few
trash bins belonging to the shops on either side.

Garrett tugged at Caleb’s sleeve. “Let’s go,
Caleb,” he said.

Caleb ignored him, pulling his sleeve from
Garrett’s fingers as he staggered into the mouth of the alley.

A chill ran through Garrett’s body. It wasn’t
like Caleb to disobey an order. Had the sisterhood done something
to him? Was he damaged in some way? Would Uncle be able to fix him
if he was?

“Caleb?” Garrett called after him as the
zombie disappeared into the shadows between the buildings. Garrett
looked at Marla.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Garrett said. He pulled his
essence flask from his bag and held it out in front of him, letting
its green glow light his steps as he followed Caleb into the
darkness.

About twelve feet into the alleyway, Caleb
stood, looking down at a dark stain on the greenish cobblestones at
his feet.

Garrett stared at the discolored stones. The
gray mortar between the smooth stones had a faintly brownish hue in
a large patch against the wall. The stones of the wall as well bore
a faint trace of something darker than the shadows of approaching
night.

Garrett felt a sudden sense of dreadful
clarity. He looked up at Caleb, and the zombie lifted his dead
white eyes to meet his gaze.

“This is where you died, wasn’t it?” Garrett
asked.

Caleb stared back, unblinking. Then his eyes
narrowed slightly, and he turned his head toward the far end of the
alley. Caleb moaned softly and stumbled onward into the
shadows.

“We should really be going,” Marla said,
“It’s almost Curfew.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, “Let’s get him out of
here.”

They moved further down the alley to find
Caleb on his knees in the shadows.

“Caleb!” Garrett cried, “Are you all
right?”

The zombie did not look up. He was clawing at
a small drain grate in the center of the alleyway, trying to force
his pale white fingers through the narrow openings in the grate. He
let out a whining moan as he jabbed again and again at the tiny
grate, unable to push his hand through.

Garrett’s heart sank at the pitiful sight.
What if visiting the scene of his own murder had driven Caleb mad?
“What are you doing, Caleb?” Garrett asked, “What’s down
there?”

Caleb ignored him, trying to grab hold of the
grate with both hands and tear it from the ground to no avail.

“Caleb!” Garrett shouted, “I…”

The first, mournful bells of Evenchime rang
out, silencing him.

“Garrett!” Marla said.

“I know,” he answered, then turned to Caleb
again. “Caleb!” he shouted, “You
will
listen to me and do as
I say!”

Caleb’s head lifted suddenly, his lips curled
back over his teeth in rage.

Garrett staggered back a step before
mastering his fear of his friend… his creation.

“Caleb!” Garrett cried, “Look at me!”

Caleb’s breath hissed out between clenched
teeth, his face the image of a vengeful ghost.

“It’s me, Caleb!” Garrett said, lifting his
hands, “It’s me… your friend. Don’t…” Garrett’s voice caught in his
throat, “don’t be broken… please.”

Caleb’s expression softened. He looked down
at the grate between his knees then lifted his dead white hands,
studying them a long time. At last, he whimpered softly and shut
his eyes.

“It’s all right, Caleb,” Garrett said. He
walked over and put his hands on Caleb’s trembling shoulders. “I’ll
take you home."

Chapter Ten

"...and then the High Priestess almost had
Shelbie excommunicated for seizing our assets," Max said, pausing
to take another sip of his wine, "It seems the Matron took it upon
herself to act without consulting the HP."

"Hmn," Cenick said, his fingers forming a
cage around his mostly untouched cup on Max's dining room
table.

Garrett sat at the head of the table, at
Max's insistence, stuffing another forkful of egg noodles and beef
into his mouth. A trio of undead servants stood, at the ready, with
more noodles and beverages. All three of the zombies wore black
tablecloths, draped like shrouds over their heads, since Max had
been unable to recover their original robes.

Max finished his drink and waved for another.
"The HP is really quite a charming woman, once you get to know
her," Max said.

"They call her
the HP
?" Garrett asked
between bites.

"Well, no," Max admitted, "but they
should
. That place could definitely use a bit less
formality."

"Were you able to learn any more about their
process?" Cenick asked.

"For raising skeletons?" Max said, "Not a
thing."

Cenick grimaced. "You've been at the temple
for the past three days! What have you been doing?"

"Diplomacy!" Max said as he set down his cup
and leaned back in his chair, one of Jitlowe's garishly carved,
high-backed chairs with plush purple upholstery. Jitlowe had given
it to him, since Max had only been able to recover three of his
four-piece set. Jitlowe had already given away or sold most of his
recovered furniture, complaining that it
felt used
.

Cenick shook his head and took a drink.

"Look," Max said, "I've tried. You know me.
It's just that... well, it's a very closely guarded secret, how to
animate a skeleton. Only the priestesses are let in on the trick...
and certain Templars." Max's eyes drifted toward Garrett who sat,
staring back with a long loop of noodles dangling from his
mouth.