The Necromancer's Nephew (17 page)

"Huh!" Kent said, picking up a long wooden spoon, "I could beat one of them in a fight, easy." So saying, the boy lunged forward, jabbing the bowl of the spoon into Caleb's belly. The zombie grunted and snarled as the boy leapt back.

"Kent!" Pierce said, "Cut that out!"

"I could beat one easy," Kent grumbled, putting the spoon back on the counter.

"You could beat
one
easy," Garrett said, "but there would be nine hundred more of them right behind him. How many could you get before they got you?"

A bit of the color drained from Kent's face.

"And anyway," Garrett said, "stabbing a zombie in the stomach isn't going to do you any good. Like I said, they don't eat anymore, so their guts aren't really important to them. If you don't smash their brains in, they just keep on coming."

"Gross!" Kent said.

"Are you boys finished playing around?" a woman's voice called from the kitchen door, "You maybe want to do some work now?"

The Nash boys jumped and turned to face their mother. Mrs. Nash stood in the doorway. She wore a long, spotless apron with her white sleeves rolled up to her elbows to reveal her brown forearms. Though less fair in complexion than her boys, her hair shone almost silver. The shape of her face reminded Garrett of Annalien's features, and he wondered if the Fraelans might not be related to elves somehow.

"Good afternoon, Master Garrett," she said, smiling at him.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Nash," he said.

"I hope my boys haven't been causing too much trouble," she said.

"No ma'am," Garrett said, "I was just telling them about zombies."

"Well, we're here to feed the living tonight, boys, so step lively," she said, "I want everything set up in the dining room in half an hour."

"Yes, mum," the boys said in unison. They grabbed platters and hurried out of the room. Caleb made a low rumbling noise as Kent pushed past him on the way out.

Mrs. Nash moved to the basket of hot rolls and plucked one out, handing it to Garrett. "Something to tide you over 'till dinner," she said.

"Thanks!" Garrett said. He looked down at the soft bread in the palm of his glove and breathed in its delicious, nutty aroma. Something in the scent of it stirred up old memories and he felt a lump growing in his throat.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Nash asked.

"Yeah," Garrett said, hoarsely, "It just reminds me of... my dad and mom. We had a bakery..." Something broke inside him then, and Garrett's shoulders began to shake. He clenched his teeth together, but could not keep from sobbing aloud.

Mrs. Nash knelt beside him and held him as he wept. He tried to stop himself, but great wracking sobs poured out from someplace he had kept locked up for the past three years.

"Let it out, boy, let it out," she whispered, stroking his back as she held him
.

"Everything all right ma?" Pierce called from the doorway.

"Shh," she said, waving the boys off. Pierce pulled his younger brother away, and they found somewhere else to be for a while.

"I'm... sor...ry," Garrett sobbed, trying to regain his composure.

"No, boy," she said, "There's nothin' to be sorry for." She pulled him close, hugging him tightly.

Garrett felt a cold, rough touch through the hood on the back of his head. He turned to see Caleb standing beside him, looking down at him with sad, glassy eyes. The zombie gave him a stiff, reassuring pat on the head and grunted.

Mrs. Nash looked up with an expression of wonder, tinged with just a hint of fear.
"You see?" she laughed nervously, "Y
ou find family in the unlikeliest places."

Garrett came downstairs for dinner, dressed in his best satin robe and hood of darkest indigo with black woolen hose and slippers beneath. Uncle seated him in the middle of the long table between Cenick and Max, while Uncle took his usual place at the head of the table. A dozen more necromancers of their acquaintance sat along either side, dressed in formal purple robes. The moment Uncle sat down, undead servants converged upon the table with pitchers of chilled wine in hand.

The old man carved the ham with his favorite knife, a ruby-pommeled dagger with an impossibly thin blade that never grew dull.

"A ghast-wrought blade," Cenick whispered reverently to Garrett.

"Ghast-wrought?" Garrett whispered back.

"The Ghasts are boogie-men that superstitious folk frighten their children with," Max said, "Any old thing you find that looks better than what we can make today, you wave your hands over it and proclaim it was 'ghast-wrought'!"

Cenick glared at his friend. "And, if you are too proud to admit your own ignorance," Cenick said, "you can spend your days poking fun at anyone who knows more than you do."

"To ignorance!" Max said, raising his cup in toast, "May I never learn enough to know that I know nothing."

Cenick chuckled and lifted his cup as well. "Little danger of that," he said.

Max looked as if he would speak again, but Uncle called for everyone's attention.

"Keepers of the Dead," Uncle said, rising from his chair, "tomorrow you embark upon an expedition against the sons of Malleatus."

Garrett caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and looked to see Cenick completing a surreptitious ritual gesture of warding against the blood god's name, his fingers crossed in front of his lips.

"I wish you all the best of luck in this noble endeavor," Uncle continued, and the table rang with the approving voices of the assembled necromancers.

"But, of course, you all know that I don't believe in luck," he said. The younger men laughed in response.

"To that end, your meal tonight comes with a warning," Tinjin said, "The Chadiri have moved their reserves to the south."

Garrett saw the smiles fade from the faces of the other men.

"They will try to draw you in, and trick you into committing your forces into what will appear to be an easy battle on open ground. The Chadiri will think nothing of sacrificing a thousand men to bait their trap. You must not fall into it."

Uncle paused to let his words sink in. "Guard your dead, for they will guard your lives in turn. Do not waste them as the Chadiri waste their living. Keep to the swamps. The water and the trees will hide your numbers and shield you from the watcher in the sky. Keep your units spaced well apart, and never match strength against strength. Always strike the enemy's weakness and then flee into the darkness before his strength can be brought against you.

"Do not be lured in by large numbers of unburied corpses. The enemy knows that we use their dead against them, and will burn their dead when they can. Otherwise, they may be a trap for a greedy necromancer.

"Remember, when the enemy sleeps, he dreams of blood-drenched battlefields, where he crushes strong men beneath his boot. We are his nightmare, a foe that does not bleed, a foe that will not stand and answer his challenge, a foe that will creep into his tent and choke the life from him while he lies dreaming of glory."

The necromancers stood as one, cheering and applauding him. Uncle wore a troubled expression as he ran his hand through his pale hair.

"I wish I could tell you more," he said, "but I am a scholar, not a warrior. I look at you all, fine young minds... you should be studying."

The necromancers laughed.

Uncle shook his head sadly. "Do not be hasty to cast your lives into the jaws of glory," he said, "This world has too many dead heroes... ah, I'm rambling now. Best to wrap things up." Uncle Tinjin raised his wine cup in toast.

"Brothers," he said, "t
urn the red tide!"

The necromancers lifted their cups and cheered as one. Max grinned as he clapped Garrett on the shoulder, and Garrett smiled up at his friends.

"Tomorrow, Garrett," Max Zara said, "the Keepers of the Dead go to war."

****

Garrett rubbed his eyes and yawned widely as he helped the servants clean the dining room. Uncle Tinjin sat in one of the many worn but comfortable chairs, staring blearily at the letter Mrs. Veranu had sent by way of Garrett
.

Garrett paused to watch as Uncle ran his fingers over the wax seal. The old man shut his eyes for a moment, bowing his head. He delicately pried the seal loose around the edges rather than breaking it. He unfolded the brown paper and squinted at it, moving the lamp on the small table beside him closer with his free hand.

Garrett moved closer, absently picking up a half-filled wine cup and adding it to the stack he was making on a crumb-heaped silver platter. Uncle's lips moved slightly as his expression darkened. The weariness drained from his lined face, and his jaw clenched. He looked at Garrett who jumped at being caught looking.

"Garrett," Uncle said, "I think I'm going to have to leave you in charge of things for a while"

"What?" Garrett asked.

"I have some business to attend out of the city. You'll have to make do while I'm away."

"Is Mrs. Veranu in trouble?" Garrett asked, setting his stack of dishes aside.

Uncle Tinjin remained silent for a moment, his eyes judging the boy. "Yes," he said at last, "she needs my help."

"Are you going to the vampire city?" Garrett asked.

Uncle nodded. "I have a few friends left there. Lyssa will need their help as well."

Garrett nodded, marveling that he had never before known Mrs. Veranu's first name, and that Uncle Tinjin should call her by it.

"I may be away several months, if it comes to that," Uncle said, rising from his chair and folding the letter
.

"Is someone trying to hurt them?" Garrett asked.

"Someone is trying to make the Veranus into something they are not," Tinjin said, "and that is the worst sort of hurt."

"What do you mean?" Garrett asked.

Uncle sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Before Marla's father died, he asked me to take his family away from Thrinnar. He knew what would happen if they stayed.

"Marla is a very special girl, and there are those who would use her to further their own ends. Her father wanted her far away from all of that. Even so, I was barely able to get them out the first time. Mrs. Veranu has done everything she could to keep her daughter away from that dark city, raising her on the road, living in exile.

"Still, if the elders ever joined their wills to it, nothing on earth would keep the girl from their grasp."

Garrett breathed heavily, balling his fists. "I would."

Uncle smiled at him. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said, "In any case, the elders' indecision is our greatest ally. The old worms will argue a single point of contention over several lifetimes of men. The doom of immortals is politics, and it is a weapon I shall wield against them without mercy. Do you think you can keep things going here without me for a while?"

Garrett nodded.

"Good," Uncle said, "Let's get some sleep then. I'll be slipping out during the excitement tomorrow."

If you were brave enough to try it, the market lifts provided an easy shortcut down from the upper city to the lower city. The four great outdoor elevator platforms worked day and night, bringing goods up from the canal docks to the markets above.

The dockworkers weren't supposed to allow passengers onto the freight elevators, but they looked the other way if you slipped them a penny to catch a ride down. Garrett handed over his two brass, and the grinning docker hooked his thumb toward one of the platforms, almost fully laden now with empty crates and wooden palettes.

"Mind you stay to the center, and don't stick yer hands between the boxes, if you wanna keep yer fingers."

"Yes, sir," Garrett said, and he led Caleb out onto the gently swaying platform, finding a good stack of crates on which to sit.

Soon enough, the dockers finished their load and wave
d toward the ox driver. A loud
"Hup hup!" followed, and the oxen team leaned against their yokes. With a creak of pulleys and chains, the great counterweight began its long climb up the side of the escarpment, and Garrett began his six hundred foot descent down to the lower city.

Fifteen minutes later, Garrett and Caleb stepped out onto the canal docks. The workers paid them no heed as the men swarmed past to unload the empties and pile the lift with sacks of ham and crates of carrots. The purple-robed boy and his zombie drew a few stares from the boatmen, but most of the canal men were accustomed to the city's oddities and soon returned to their duties
.

Garrett left Caleb standing against the wall of the auction house and wriggled his way through the thick crowds that had gathered in the stockyards of the lower city. Common folk and refugees, beggars and traders, all gathered to see the army of the dead assembled there, ready to march.

"It's horrible!" a woman gasped as Garrett squeezed past.

"I'm glad it's them going and not us," her husband said.

Garrett continued, making his way toward the sound of priestess Serepheni's voice as she addressed the throng.