The Enterprise of Death (36 page)

The barkeep and official whoremonger sat on a rock facing Katharina, the artist’s wife nude save for a transparent shift that concealed her charms no more than a light breeze might. She held an apple in her hand, the very image of Venus to Manuel’s eye. They had been right, of course, and as he worked he could scarcely believe he had gotten Awa’s and Monique’s roles reversed. The gunner made as perfect a Juno as Katharina made a Venus, but there could be no denying that of the three Awa most embodied her goddess—though Manuel was perhaps a touch mixed up over the historical roles and identities of the goddesses in the first place.

Manuel felt guilty adding the long curls of hair on Awa’s shoulder that she had insisted upon, at softening her at all, at lightening her flesh and masking her features, but still she shone through the disguise he gave her, Minerva as she had first appeared to him in the cave, his sword in her hand, a borrowed shield on her shoulder, his hat upon her head. Catching himself comparing his models, Manuel smiled to himself—he was more in Paris’s position than the seated model, and made sure to replace the barkeep’s face with his own in the finished painting. For now he sketched them as carefully as he could, and upon returning to Bern would have the apprentice he could finally afford make a
cartoon of his sketch, which in turn the boy would copy onto a panel for Manuel to paint.

“You look like shit,” Manuel had told her earlier in the day, Awa’s eyes sunken and purple-rimmed, her breath hellish, but now she looked perfect.

“So do you,” she had said, and she was right, a few years away from mercenary work enabling him to acquire a bit of a paunch.

“Come visit sometime,” said Manuel. “I want to show you some things I’ve been working on.”

“I’ll come …” Awa paused. “Soon.”

She had not, and now time was running short. Awa was beginning to lose sleep, to grow distracted even when Chloé was tending to her, and she went from drinking every night to drinking every morning as well. Monique commented on it, as did Dario, but Awa did not pay much mind until Chloé brought it up.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the younger woman demanded.

“Huh?” Awa blinked, unsure if it was morning or dusk. Not enough light was coming in for it to be midday, but too much for night. “What?”

“You’ve been calling me that name again,” said Chloé. “You can call me Rose or anything you want, but you need to pay extra.”

The girl had grown quite lippy since Awa had run out of her stock of coins and had to start collecting a stipend from Monique to keep Chloé in clothes—going to a churchyard to refill her coffers no longer appealed to her in the slightest. Reaching around for a bottle, she found them all empty, which did little to improve her mood. Chloé watched her, shaking her head. “Pathetic.”

“Get fucked,” said Awa, finding one with a little slosh to it.

“Maybe I will. Merritt’s offered me means if I want out of this game.”

“Yeah, marry Roast Beefy and have his calves,” said Awa,
tilting the bottle back and disappointed to find wine instead of stronger stuff. The Englishman no longer bothered her, much as he tried whenever they crossed paths in the tavern. Awa and Chloé had been fighting more than usual, however, about this and that and the other, and though Awa could read all the signs she paddled harder into the brewing storm. “I don’t care what you fucking do, you dizzy slut.”

“All right then,” said Chloé, and up snapped the trap, and down went the ladder, and out went Chloé. Awa lay back on the bed, her heart pounding, the wind whistling outside, and tried to stop herself from shivering. He was coming to get her, right now he was out there, bobbing on the breeze, smacking his spectral lips, getting his affairs in order. Fuck that, and fuck …

Awa sat up with a start, and now it was dark in the room, very dark. The dream was running, weaving away from her, but she clung to the edge of it, and drew her legs up to her chest. She had not so much as thought about her mother in years, certainly could not remember her face, or the sound of her voice, or all the specifics that had been so vivid moments before, and she set to work before she found herself downstairs opening a bottle.

It had never occurred to Awa before, not once, and even as she splashed water in her face, trying to think straight, the absurdity of it gave her a chuckle. Blood was not enough; she needed a skull to call them back, and of course her blood was not the same even if it had been sufficient … but what was the harm? She casually cut into her forearm, not too deep, just enough, and then daubed the blood in a circle on the floor, then drew a second circle beside it. She let a bit more blood run off her elbow into a pool inside this second ring, and then she sat cross-legged in the first circle. Without bothering to stanch the wound, Awa focused intently on her dream, on the sound of the voice, on the appearance, on the smell.

She had never before tried to call back a spirit without a body,
had not tried to call back any kind of spirit in years, but almost at once she felt its arrival. The circles of blood were bubbling, burning, the stink like scorched hair only sweeter, sharper, and a column of smoke rose from the puddle of blood in the second, empty circle. The shape was indistinct, swirling, and the voice was a strange warble, closer to an insect’s than a person’s, yet Awa was sure she had succeeded, and the pleasure at this victory was only surpassed by the pleasure of seeing her mother again, no matter how dimly.

“I … I’m sorry for what I’ve done,” said Awa, but the spirit could not answer in any tongue that Awa knew. So they simply stared at one another for as long as the blood smoked, and then the woman began to fade, and then she was gone and Awa was alone.

“I will see you again,” Awa told the air, and the certainty of that decision rocked her to her bones, the folly of what she had been doing, of the time she had squandered, no longer important. There was time, there had to be; she would not hide in a garret, drunk and slobbering, until he arrived and ended her, until he swallowed her into oblivion. Fuck that, and fuck him.

She must have been laughing or crying, for each bed she passed on the third floor went quiet, and then she had gained the stair, banging on Monique’s door until it swung open. Awa pushed the pistol away as she barged in, Monique cursing as she stepped back and removed the sizzling matchcord she had almost used to fire the gun into her friend’s face. A newer whore was sitting up in Monique’s bed, her open mouth growing wider as Awa approached her.

“—fuck?!”

“Out, please.” Awa ignored Monique, addressing the harlot. “I need to discuss some life-and-death business with the lady.”

“Mo?” The whore looked over Awa’s shoulder, and whatever
she saw encouraged her to hop quickly out of bed, the sheet wrapped around her ample form.

“Wait in the hall, I don’t wanna go an’ find ya,” Monique was telling the girl as Awa went to the table and picked up a half-full mug of wine. Then the door shut and they were alone. “Life-an’-death it better fuckin be, Awa, I was—”

“I’m leaving,” said Awa, emptying the cup. “Now. Apologies for not giving you more notice, but time’s a fickle bitch, yeah?”

“That she is.” Monique’s wide shoulders slumped and she pulled her robe tighter around her. “An’ she ain’t the only one, apparently. If you’ve been fightin with that mink of yours again—”

“You know you mean
minx
, right?”

“Mink’s soft an’ pretty an’ bites if ya ain’t careful, an’ I can’t say what the fuck a minx is, so no, I mean fuckin
mink
. Rhymes with pink. But point is, ya been yellin again?”

“Monique.” Awa smiled, knowing she never would have made so happy a home without the madam’s help. “You’ve been a grand friend, grand, but I’m away, and that’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Awa poured another cup from the bottle, handed it to Monique, and hefted the bottle to her own lips. “Away.”

“Why? Where’re ya goin? What’s so fuckin urgent?”

“Better not to know.” Awa winked, tugging her ear. “Witch business.”

“Ah.” Monique set her gun on the table and swished the mug in her hand. “This witch business might allow ya ta pop in from time ta time, let us know you’re well?”

“I don’t know,” said Awa. “I very much hope so.”

“Me too,” said Monique, putting the wine down beside her gun. “Me too, little sister.”

They stood facing each other for a time, and then Monique
turned and went to her trunk. She unlocked it with a key she kept on a necklace around her bull neck and removed a purse. She started to untie it but then thought better of it and tossed it to Awa. The necromancer caught the pouch, the weight of the coins stinging her palm.

“Takin that prime mink with ya?” Monique was perfectly lousy at faking a smile. “If she stayed behind I’d ’old a brighter ’ope of ya comin back.”

“I don’t know,” said Awa, the thought she had kept at bay now barking in her face. “I hope so, but she’s a free woman.”

“Aren’t we fuckin all,” said Monique, her smile becoming more genuine.

“Oh! Oh, Monique, I have something for you—but you have to make me a promise, alright?” Awa had set down the satchel she had hastily packed with the portrait of Chloé and all her other treasures. She took out the hawthorn box as Monique lit a second candle from the nub burning on the table. “Now, your word, Monique!”

“My word, right enough,” said Monique. “I’ll do as ya wish … but what’re those, rocks?”

“Salamander eggs,” said Awa. “I’m going to keep one in case I need it, but the other five are yours, so long as you promise to let them go when you’re done with them.”

“Eggs?” Monique looked suspiciously at them, perhaps worried they were about to hatch. “What do I do with’em?”

“Whatever you wish. You’re smarter than you let on.”

“That’s a little outta order!”

“Listen, when you’re done with them, or if you don’t find them useful, just go out to the woods, and build up a big pile of logs, and put them all in the middle. Then let them go.”

“Riiiiiight.” Monique was giving Awa a strange look, so Awa hurriedly went on.

“They start fires. Their mother whispers the word for fire to
them, and they immolate themselves, but if there’s no tinder atop them they just go out again before they hatch. They need a mother to build a nest for them to burn up as they hatch, to help them leave their eggs. I don’t know how many years they’ve been waiting for someone to help them hatch, and I was going to, but I owe you so much, and—”

“What in fuck, Awa? Really? I think you’ve maybe been drinkin a bit—”

“Watch,” said Awa firmly, dropping one of the eggs onto the metal plate the candles were burning on. “Lean in, lean in …
fire.
”

The round stone flashed white-hot, the brilliance making their eyes water, and almost at once the two candles on the plate toppled over, their bases melted to liquid in an instant. Already the little stone was extinguished, a thread of black smoke rising up from it, and Monique stumbled backwards away from the table, the room going dark as the fallen candles went out. By the time Monique relit the candles Awa had repacked her things, including the one salamander egg she was keeping for herself.

“Just focus on the one you want to light, focus and address it like you were telling someone something instead of addressing a room, and it’ll light right up. But when you’re done build them a nest, and let them go. Right?”

“Right, Awa, right,” said Monique, staring at the box. “Just say …
fire
?” Monique whispered the last word, and Awa smiled.

“Perfect. Take care of them, Mo, and take care of yourself.” Awa shouldered her bag, eager to be off.

“Aye, an’ you. Fill your bag from the larder, an’ all the stern-water you want, an’, an’, fuck, I dunno, be careful?”

“Of course!”

“Will you, er, are you seein Manuel anytime soon?”

“I …” Everything had been happening so quickly that she had not thought about it. “I’d like to, very much, but I don’t know. If I
don’t, don’t get to see him, you’ll tell him that I love him, won’t you?”

“What?!”

“Tell him that I love him.” Awa nodded sadly, realizing she might well never see Monique again, either. “And I love you, Monique. Be happy.”

“I—” Awa threw her arms around the giantess, who quieted at her embrace, and they held each other tightly for a time, neither speaking. Then Awa sighed and released Monique, each wiping their cheeks as they straightened up.

“She’s asleep.” Awa winked at Monique as she opened the door and saw the woman she had kicked out dozing on the floor.

“Fuck me.” Monique frowned. “Forgot about’er.”

“Goodbye, Monique,” said Awa, giving her a peck on the cheek, and then the necromancer disappeared down the dark hallway.

The only ones awake in the tavern were Dario, Merritt, and Chloé, who sat drinking at a table. Awa strode directly up to the trio, who had quieted at her arrival on the stair, and informed Dario she would be taking food and drink. She set to packing rations while he scuttled upstairs to clear it with Monique, and then she turned to Chloé.

“I’m off to find something I should have gone after a long time ago,” Awa told Chloé.

“Your Omorose?” The girl crossed her arms.

“What?
No
! She, she hates me, and I can’t say that I’m terribly fond of her, now that I’ve had ample time to consider things.”