The Dead of Winter- - Thieves World 07 (35 page)

"It's cold where I am, Zalbar. I don't like it here. You know how I always hated the cold."

"Well it's no lark here either," Zalbar snapped, surprised at his own boldness.

"And as for the cold ... it's winter. That means it's cold all over."

"I need your help. I can't cross over to the other side without your help! Help me and I'll trouble you no more."

Zalbar suddenly grew more attentive. That was more information than his friend's ghost had ever given him in the past ... or perhaps he had been too drunk to register what was being said.

"Cross over to where? How can I help you?"

"I can't tell you that ..."

"Oh, Vashanka!" Zalbar exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Here we go again. I can't help you if you won't tell me what ..."

"Talk to Ischade," the spirit interrupted. "She can tell you what I cannot."

"Who?" Zalbar blinked. "Ischade? You mean the weird woman living in Downwind?

That Ischade?"

"Ischade ..." the ghost repeated, fading from sight.

"But ... Oh, Vashanka! Wouldn't you know it. The one time I want to talk to him and now he's gone."

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Zalbar sank back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. Maybe sleeping again would bring the irritating apparition back long enough for a few clarifying questions.

As might be expected, he slept the rest of the night undisturbed. Zalbar awoke near midday with a fresh sense of resolve. Razkuli's ghost had finally given him some information he could act on, and he was determined to rid himself of his otherworldly nag before he slept again. The beginning of his quest, however, was delayed until nearly nightfall. The hangover he had eluded for his late-night conference with the spirit descended on him with a vengeance now that its ally, the sun, was shining bright. As a result, he spent most of the day abed, weak-limbed and fuzzy-headed, waiting until the traditional penance for overindulgence had passed before sallying forth. He might have convinced himself to wait until the next day, but all through his recovery he had clung to one thought like a buoy on a stormy sea. It's almost over. Talk to Ischade. Talk to Ischade and I can sleep again. Thus it was that a wobbly Zalbar donned his uniform and ventured out into the last rays of the setting sun, determined to rid himself of his nighttime tormenter or die in the attempt ... which, at the moment, seemed a reasonably attractive option.

It was his intention to follow the North Road, which skirted the city's walls, to the bridge over the White Foal River, thereby avoiding the streets of the city proper. It was well known that, following the Hell-Hounds' removal, the chaos in town had evolved into vicious street fighting between rival factions, and he had no desire to be delayed by a brawl. Once he had walked unafraid even in the Maze, the heart of Sanctuary's underground. Now, that was someone else's concern and there was no need to take unnecessary risks. The further he went, the more he realized that he had underestimated the extent of the urban warfare. Even here, outside the city, his trained eye could detect signs of preparations for violence. There were boxes and barrels stacked in formations clearly designed for cover and defense rather than for storage, and there were any number of armed men lounging in corners with no apparent purpose other than to serve as lookouts. Despite his weakened condition, Zalbar grew more tense as he walked, feeling scores of concealed eyes watching him ... appraising his strength. Perhaps he should have taken the longer route, skirting the town to the east, then passing south along the wharfs where violence was least likely. Too late to turn back now. He'd just have to brazen it through and hope enough respect lingered for the Hell-Hounds' uniform to give him safe passage.

Dropping a hand to his sword hilt, he slipped into the jaunty, swaggering gait of old, all the while trying desperately to remember the latest whorehouse rumors of which factions controlled which portions of the town. His walk went unchallenged, and he was just beginning to congratulate himself on the endurance of the Hell-Hound reputation he had fought so hard to build when a stray gust of wind carried the sound of derisive laughter to him from one of the watch-posts. With that, an alternate explanation for his uncontested progress came to him with a rush that made his cheeks burn in spite of the cold. Maybe the Hell Hounds' reputation had simply fallen so low that they were considered beneath notice ... not a sufficient threat to bother springing a trap on. It was a humbled and subdued Zalbar that finally arrived at Ischade's residence. He paused on her doorstep, momentarily lost in thought. Soldiers were never popular, and he had suffered his share of abuse for wearing a uniform. This was the first time, though, that he had been a subject of other arms-bearers'

ridicule. Sometime, after he had rehoned his sword and his skills, he would have to see what could be done about reestablishing the respect a Hell-Hound uniform was due. Maybe he could interest Armen and Quag as well. It was about time they all started giving a bit of thought to their collective future. First, however, there was the business at hand to see to ... and in his current state his mind could handle only one plan at a time. Raising a fist, he knocked on Ischade's door, wondering at the strange foliage in her garden. The silence surrounding the house was unsettling, and he was about to knock again if just for the noise when the door opened a crack and a man's eye regarded him with a glare.

"Who is it and what do you want so early in the morning?"

"I am Zalbar of the Prince Kadakithis's personal bodyguard," he barked, falling into old habits, "and I have come ..." Zalbar stopped suddenly and stole a glance at the now dark sky. "Early in the morning? Excuse me, but it's just past sundown."

"We're sleeping late in this house. It's been very busy lately," was the growled response. "What is it you want?"

"I wish to speak with the person known as Ischade."

"Is this official business, or a personal matter?" Zalbar considered trying to bluff, but could think of no way to phrase his inquiries to make them sound official.

"Personal," he admitted finally.

"Then come back at a decent hour. She's got better things to do than ..."

"Oh let him in, Haught," came a commanding female voice from somewhere out of sight. "I'm awake now anyway."

The guardian of the door favored Zalbar with one last dark glare, then stepped back to allow him entrance.

The Hell-Hound's first impression of Ischade's sitting room was that he had seen neater battlefields. Then his eye registered the strewn items, and he revised his opinion. Once he had led an assault against a band of mountaineers busily looting a rich caravan. The aftermath had been very similar to what he was seeing here: expensive goods tossed randomly with no regard to their value. A prince's ransom had been ruined with careless handling ... He decided that he wouldn't like Ischade. His time in palaces and brothels taught him to appreciate objects that he could never afford and to be offended at their neglect. At least royalty knew how to take care of their toys ... or had servants who did.

"What can I do for you, Officer?"

He turned to find a raven-haired woman entering the room, belting a black robe about herself as she walked.

"Ischade?"

"Yes?"

Now that she was in front of him, Zalbar was suddenly unsure of what to say.

"I was told to talk to you ... by a ghost." The man by the door groaned noisily. Ischade shot him a look that could have been used in the army.

"Sit down, Officer. I think you'd better tell me your story from the beginning." Zalbar took the offered seat absently, trying to organize his thoughts.

"I had a friend ... he was killed several years ago. He's haunting me. The first time was a long time back and he didn't reappear, so I thought it was just a bad dream. Lately, he's been coming to me more often ... every time I try to sleep, as a matter of fact. He says he needs my help to cross over, whatever that means. He told me to talk to you ... that you could tell me what he couldn't. That's why I'm here."

Ischade listened to all this with pursed lips and a faraway stare.

"Your friend. Tell me about him."

"He was a Hell-Hound, like me. His name was Razkuli ..." Zalbar would have continued, but Ischade had suddenly raised a hand to her forehe ad, massaging it as she grimaced.

"Razkuli. That's where I've seen that uniform before. But he isn't one of the ones that I keep."

"I don't understand," the Hell-Hound frowned. "Are you saying you know him?"

"He has ... assisted me from time to time," Ischade said, shrugging lightly.

"Now, what can I do to help you?"

Zalbar tried to digest what Ischade was saying, but his mind simply wasn't up to the implications. Finally, he abandoned his efforts and returned to his original line of questioning.

"Could you tell me what's going on? What did Razkuli mean when he said that he couldn't 'cross over'?"

"For some reason his spirit is trapped between the realm of the living and the realm of the dead. Something is keeping him from a peaceful rest, and he wants you to help him on the physical plane."

"Help him how? What is it I'm supposed to do?"

"I don't know for sure. It could be any one of a number of things. I suppose the only way to find out is to ask him."

Zalbar straightened in his chair and glanced nervously around the room. "You mean you're going to summon the spirit? Here? Now?" Ischade shook her head in an abrupt negative. "First of all, that's not the way it works. I don't summon spirits ... I send an agent or occasionally fetch them personally. In this case, however, I think we'll leave the spirit alone and pursue alternate methods for obtaining the necessary information. As you've probably noticed, spirits aren't particularly eloquent or informative. Besides, I just got back from a quest like that, and I'll be damned if I'll go to hell again for a while."

"How's that again?" the Hell-Hound frowned.

"Nothing. Just a little joke. What I mean is, I think we'll have better luck simply animating his corpse and asking what the problem is."

"His corpse," Zalbar echoed hollowly.

"... Of course, someone will have to fetch it. Do you know where he's buried?"

"In the garrison graveyard north of town ... the grave's clearly marked."

"Good. Then you'll have no trouble finding it. As soon as you bring it here, we can ..."

"ME?" Zalbar exclaimed. "Surely you can't expect me to dig up a grave."

"Certainly. Why not?"

The thought of digging up a well-aged corpse ... any corpse, much less that of his friend, horrified Zalbar. Still, he found himself strangely reluctant to express his revulsion to this woman who spoke so lightly of animating corpses and trips to hell.

"Um ... I'm Hell-Hound, part of a royal retinue," he said instead. "If I were caught, a charge of grave-robbing would be scandalous." In his corner, Haught snorted. "Open fighting in the streets and the authorities are worried about grave-robbing? I doubt there would be any danger of discovery."

"Then you fetch it if you're so sure there's no danger of arrest," Zalbar snapped back.

"Yes, that's a good idea." Ischade nodded. "Run along, Haught, and bring us the contents of Razkuli's grave. With luck we can see this business done by sun-up."

"ME?" Haught scowled. "But ..."

"You," Ischade ordered firmly. "Now." Haught started to reply angrily, then apparently thought better of it and slammed out the door into the night without another word.

"Now then. Officer," Ischade purred, focusing hooded eyes on Zalbar. "While we wait, perhaps you can tell me what you think of the Beysib-Nisibisi Alliance." In the next hour, while anxiously awaiting Haught's return, Zalbar became firmly convinced that Ischade was insane. The silly woman seemed to have some idea that the arrival of the Beysib in Sanctuary was somehow part of a Nisi plot ... this opinion apparently based on the observation that both cultures were snake-cults. Zalbar's efforts to point out that the Beysib used small vipers, while military reports indicated that the Nisibisi were into man-sized constrictors, fell on deaf ears. If anything, his arguments seemed to reinforce Ischade's conviction that she was the only one who could see the true ramifications of what was happening in Sanctuary.

He assumed her mental imbalance was the result of her profession. If she was indeed a necromancer, constant involvement with death and corpses was bound to be unsettling to the mind. After all, look at the effect that dealing with one dead person was having on him!

As much as he dreaded viewing his friend's remains, Zalbar's conversation with Ischade was so unsettling that he was actually relieved when a footstep sounded outside and Haught appeared once more in the doorway.

"I had to steal a wheelbarrow," the necromancer's assistant said in a manner that was almost an accusation. "There were two corpses in the grave."

"Two?" Zalbar scowled, but he was talking to thin air. Haught reappeared in a moment carrying the first moldering body, which he dumped unceremoniously on the floor, and turned to fetch the second one. Ischade bent over their prize, beckoning Zalbar to move closer.

"Is this your friend?"

Zalbar was still shaking his head. "I don't understand it," he said. "How could there be two bodies in the same grave?"

"It's not uncommon," Ischade shrugged. "Gravedig-gers get paid by the body, and if you don't watch them, they'll dump two or more bodies into the same grave rather than going through the trouble of digging several ... especially if there are two graveyards involved and they don't want to have to drag the second corpse across town. Your friend was probably buried with someone else who died about the same time. The question is, was this him?" The corpse was almost beyond recognition. What skin and flesh was left was dried and mummified; bone showed in many places. There was a gaping hole in the abdomen, and the internal organs were not in evidence.