The Necromancer's Nephew Read online

  "Uncle's doing well," Garrett said, "I think he's really excited about this package, whatever's in it. Do you know what it is?"

  "Of course I know what it is, you goose!" Mrs. Veranu laughed, "I had to find the beastly thing, and it wasn't easy! Still, if you want to know, you'd better ask him, though I can't imagine what's so secret about it." She let the heavy package drop on a stained workbench.

  "Oh," Garrett said, "I also needed to get a flask of essence while I'm here, if I could."

  "Certainly," Mrs. Veranu said, "Marla will help you with that. I need to finish a bit of inventory before we close for the night."

  "Thank you," Garrett said, pulling a glass and steel canister from his shoulder bag. As soon as the canister was clear of the bag, it disappeared from his grasp. Startled, he turned to find Marla holding it, smiling at him from across the room. He shook his head. Her ability to move with inhuman speed, in complete silence, still unnerved him each time she played these little tricks on him. And each time, it seemed, she got a little bit faster.

  "This won't take a minute," she said. Marla opened the canister's valve and fitted it into the base of a large mechanical grinder, "Is elkhorn all right?"

  "Yeah," Garrett said, "we don't need anything fancy. Uncle's just got a few rezzes for a contract this week."

  Marla nodded and began to lift large scoopfuls of wriggling horned beetles from a barrel and drop them into the grinder's hopper. Garrett winced at the awful crunching sound as the vampire girl spun the wheel of the machine, and a lambent green ooze began to fill his canister. She slowed the wheel as the glass window on the canister showed it nearly full. She lifted the flask from the machine's base and wiped a drop of the glowing essence from the nozzle before closing the seal on the container. Garrett had to grin when she licked her finger. Disgusting or not, he still thought it was cute.

  "Do you have a few minutes?" Marla asked.

  Garrett had as many as she wanted. "Yeah... yeah!"

  "Mom, can I show him the baby?" Marla asked.

  "Isn't it almost curfew?" Mrs. Veranu asked without looking up from her tablet.

  "I... I have a little time before I have to be back," Garrett said.

  "All right then, just don't keep him too late, Marla."

  Marla grinned, setting aside the filled canister and waving Garrett over to a largish cage in the corner, a cage covered with a tattered blanket. "Be very quiet," she whispered, "He's still asleep."

  Garrett knelt on the floor beside Marla, his arm pleasantly tingling where she leaned against him. Her hair smelled like the memory of flowers. She lifted the edge of the blanket, and Garrett marveled at what he saw.

  Inside the cage, upon a little mound of hay, lay a small, bat-like creature, no larger than a kitten. At first he wondered if it might be dead, but then he saw its tiny chest move as it breathed in its sleep. It had no eyes, only a featureless black carapace above its broad mouth. Indeed the whole thing seemed to be covered in leathery black plates with only a wispy gray mane along the back of its neck, surmounted by two tiny curved horns atop its head. In addition to its membranous wings, it possessed as well miniature sets of arms and legs ending in three-clawed talons that stretched and flexed as the creature dreamed. It gave a sort of mewing yelp and nestled deeper into its bed of hay.

  "What is it?" Garrett asked.

  "It's a baby gaunt," Marla said, her eyes glittering, "Can you believe it?"

  "A gaunt?"

  "Yes," she said, "the Moonwings have come to the city, and they've brought a covey of gaunts with them!"

  "Moonwings?" Garrett asked. Sometimes Marla thought that everyone else knew as much as she did about everything.

  "The Moonwings are vampires who ride fully grown gaunts like the ones that gave birth to this little one. They're here now and staying with us at the embassy."

  "Ride them? How big do they get?" Garrett asked.

  "Big enough!" Marla laughed, "Oh, Garrett, they're beautiful! I wish I could ride one!"

  "But why are they here in the city?"

  "I don't know," Marla said, "it must be something..."

  Mrs. Veranu cleared her throat loudly, interrupting her. Marla looked as though she were about to speak again when a new sound broke the silence. The first mournful sound of the Evenchimes rang out through the city, signaling the end of the day and the impending onset of curfew. The sound sent a thrill of fear through Garrett's chest.

  "You'd better go," Marla said.

  "Yeah"

  Mrs. Veranu helped bind Uncle's package to the side of Garrett's shoulder bag since it was too bulky to fit inside. She hustled him toward the door with the admonishment to run all the way home.

  He paused at the door, risking another moment to say goodbye to Marla. Curfew be damned, he loved seeing her smile.

  "Go!" Marla's mother gave Garrett a gentle shove out the door.

  The last worried shoppers of the evening hurried to clear the street. Again the temple bells rang out, only three more until curfew.

  Garrett ran.

  The purple robes and knee-high boots favored by the brotherhood of necromancers, while striking in appearance, at least when worn by the fully-grown members of the order, proved ill suited for Garrett's undignified sprint. Fortunately, only a handful of people remained on the street to bear witness as the boy clopped loudly down the darkened lane.

  Uncle's package proved ungainly as well. The weight of it pulled him off-balance with every step, and the wrapper had begun to tear as the twine bindings sank into the soft bulk underneath the paper.

  Garrett dared a glance down to secure to load and noticed the tear. Through it, he caught a glimpse of curly hair, so white that it seemed to sparkle in the dim light.

  His skin crawled to think what might be inside the package. Rare were the days when Uncle did not ask Garrett to transport some manner of dead thing either here or there, but the contents of those grisly parcels were seldom a secret.

  The third chime rang out. He would never make it home in time.

  Garrett's feet ached, and the strap of his satchel rubbed his shoulder raw even through the heavy wool of his robe. His pulse pounded in his ears and his breath came in ragged gasps.

  The fourth bell rang.

  Garrett looked around frantically. A thin fog crept from black alleyways into the empty streets. The sound of a bolt being thrown shut echoed through the silent lane, and the witchfire street lamps hissed and sputtered then flickered out. The starless shadow of night engulfed him.

  Garrett stumbled to a halt at an intersection of three streets. One of them led home, but doubts filled the darkness. It had to be that way. Garrett ran again, almost immediately catching the toe of his boot on an uneven cobble. He fell hard, landing on the package. Soft and thick, the mysterious parcel broke his fall, but the canister inside his bag bounced free and skittered across the pavement. Garrett scrambled on hands and knees to retrieve it, grateful for the canister's firefly glow.

  His fingers closed around the cool metal, stopping its roll. Cold tendrils of fog passed over his hand, and Garrett felt a sensation like ants crawling up the back of his neck, dark magic.

  The last bell rang.

  Garrett froze. His eyes strained against the darkness, seeing nothing beyond the ghostly circle of green light cast by the essence flask. Nothing happened. He laughed, barely... almost a squeak. Perhaps the Night Watch was only a story after all.

  A low grating sound, metal on stone, echoed through the hollow streets. Garrett dared not move. Then came a sound made of nightmares, a hoarse, wordless moan that did not echo at all. The very air seemed to fall silent and dead at the sound, and Garrett's lungs heaved to draw breath that would not come.

  Garrett got to his feet, gathering up the canister and Uncle's package. The package had torn open in the fall and he quickly bundled it back into place. The parcel contained a heavy fleece of shimmering white wool. It radiated strange warmth, and when he touched it, a measure of his fear withered in it
s unnatural heat.

  The evil cry sounded again, but this time Garrett did not shrink from it. He tucked the bundle under his arm and hurried down the street that would lead him home, careful this time of his steps. The cry sounded once more, closer this time. Then a sound like dead tree branches dragged across stones, repeating rhythmically. Garrett stopped.

  The sound came from ahead.

  The boy took a cautious step backwards, afraid to make a noise. The scraping sound grew louder. Garrett's eyes focused on the dim gap between the dark silhouettes of rooftops ahead. Then something moved into the gap, a black shadow against the gray night sky. Taller than any man, misshapen and skeletal, the Watcher turned to face him. Two faint embers of blue flame throbbed in the shadow of its horned head. It saw him. The Watcher screamed.

  Garrett's blood went cold, and he ran. He raced back down the street toward the intersection with no other plan than to get away. Another hoarse cry answered from nearby, and then another. Garrett whimpered and gasped, stumbling into the center of the crossroads once again.

  A second monstrous figure lurched against the skyline of the Market District, and another approached from the west. Garrett spun, uncertain which way to run, and the essence flask slipped from his grasp.

  The green glowing canister bounced and rolled across the flagstones, coming to rest for a moment in the gutter. It tipped on its end and disappeared into darkness with a sullen clunk. Garrett's eyes went wide, and he rushed to the place where it had disappeared. A drainpipe. Garrett squeezed his body through the narrow opening, dragging the fleece in after him.

  He dropped several feet to the trash-strewn floor of the tunnel beneath the street, finding his flask half-buried in the muck. Above him, the Watchers cried out in unison, a howl of utter despair, which made Garrett clutch the warm fleece to his chest and try in vain to shut out the horrible sound. A single bony claw raked and scrabbled at the mouth of the pipe, and Garrett wasted no time in collecting his things and fleeing further down the tunnel.

  Holding the canister in front of him, Garrett used its eerie light to guide his steps deeper into the sewer. Ancient tunnels like this one honeycombed the hills beneath the city. They weren't exactly safe, but still better than the alternative above. The tunnel curved downward until he reached a junction, and he paused, trying to guess which one would lead him to Uncle's house. Neither way looked particularly promising, but he had to choose one, and he did.

  Soon he found himself sloshing through foul ankle-deep water. Fortunately, this was one thing for which necromancer footwear was designed. The treated leather boots kept his aching feet dry at least, though they often slipped and skidded in the slime beneath the roiling surface of the dark water. He paused after a particularly dangerous slide, catching himself against the rough stone wall. Listening, he heard again what he thought he had heard before. A faint splash came from the tunnel behind.

  Garrett spun, raising his glowing flask high. A black circle of the unknown stared back at him from beyond the range of his dim lamp.

  "Who's there?" Garrett's voice shook a little.

  A low growl answered from the darkness, and two baleful red eyes moved against the shadow.

  "Stay back!" Garrett cried. His foot slipped again, leaving him poised, off-center against the wall.

  The thing in the darkness crouched and then leapt. A hairy shape full of teeth and claws burst from the blackness, and Garrett fell backwards with a startled cry.

  Clawed hands caught the front of Garrett's robe, snatching him up before he touched the floor. Wheezy, snickering laughter and hot breath that smelled like old wet rot washed over him as he was pulled to his feet.

  "That's not funny, Warren!" Garrett yelled, but he could not help laughing too.

  Warren the ghoul patted the boy's shoulder and grinned his toothy grin. "I got you good, didn't I?"

  Garrett frowned. "You wanna help me get home?"

  "Yeah," Warren said, "you were going the right way. You've just gotta take a side tunnel up here at the pit."

  "Oh, yeah, I thought this pipe looked familiar."

  They soon emerged into a large subterranean roundhouse that formed a hub for a dozen tunnels all draining into the pit at the center. Garrett and Warren had spent many hours at the pit, tossing various objects into the yawning vertical shaft. They had never once heard anything hit bottom. Even in the faint glow of Garrett's flask, the sight of it comforted him with its familiarity.

  "Almost there," Garrett sighed, "You wanna come over for dinner?"

  "Nah," Warren said, "I was just there. Your uncle sent me out to find you."

  "What were you doing at the house?" Garrett asked.

  Warren looked away, clearing his throat. "Nothin', just some errands for your uncle."

  Garrett narrowed his eyes. "Did he say anything about what this fleece was for?" he asked, indicating the torn package at his side.

  "Oh you got it!" Warren said, "Where'd you find it?"

  "Mrs. Veranu's shop."

  "Ah," Warren bared his long teeth in a canine grin, "that's why you were out past curfew."

  "I didn't... I mean... Did Uncle say what this was for or not?"

  Warren wrinkled his nose. "Look, Garrett, I've gotta get home, or my dad's gonna kill me. We're going into the catacombs tonight."

  "The catacombs?" Garrett groaned, "You guys always go without me!"

  "Sorry, Garrett, family trip," Warren said, "My cousin's in town... he's a real knob anyway. I'll be back in a couple of days. I'll bring you something if we find anything."

  "You better!" Garrett said, "Anyway, have fun."

  Warren smiled at his friend's sulky look. "You too," the ghoul said, turning to lope away into the darkness.

  "Yeah, lots of fun here," Garrett muttered as he started up the tunnel that led to Uncle Tinjin's house.

  Chapter Three

  While the drains beneath the regular city streets shared a common, unpleasant odor, you could never be certain what you might encounter in the tunnels beneath the Arcane Quarter. Garrett's luck proved good tonight. A stream of pinkish goop oozed down the central channel. It smelled faintly of orchids, and Garrett guessed that Mr. Elbie, their apothecary neighbor, had once again failed to create the perfect love potion. At least he had given up on his dream of a universal solvent. The fumes from that one had nearly killed Garrett last spring.

  Garrett arrived at a stone archway in the side of the tunnel, its keystone a single piece of quartz crystal carved in the shape of a skull. A witchfire sconce illuminated the broad stairway beyond. Garrett was home.

  Garrett's feet throbbed with every step. The cold stone felt like a personal insult through the thin soles of his boots. At last he made it to the landing and the stained, scarred oak door to Uncle's basement. He laid his burdens down and fished for the key in the pocket of his robe.

  The door wrenched open before him, and Uncle Tinjin looked down. His bushy gray eyebrows bunched together in the middle as he frowned.

  "You're late."

  "Sorry, Uncle," Garrett said, quickly snatching up the torn parcel and holding it in front of him, "I got the package."

  Uncle took the package in his bony hands. Bits of sparkling fleece poked through the ripped paper. "Curiosity get the better of you?" he asked.

  "No sir," Garrett said and then fell silent. Excuses never went well with the old necromancer.

  "Clean yourself off and meet me in the dining room when you're done. We have something to discuss."

  Garrett hurried upstairs. The witchfire candle atop his dresser sputtered into life the moment he opened the door to his bedroom, but he did not bother lighting a lamp. He hastily swapped his dirty robe and boots for a pair of slippers and a fresh shirt.

  Garrett glanced at the smudgy mirror that hung beside his wardrobe, then pulled a clean hood from a drawer and tugged it on over his head. Uncle had always pretended not to notice Garrett's scars. Garrett wished that he could do the same. He left his gloves behind, his singl
e concession to informality.

  Garrett walked back downstairs to the dining room. The huge double doors were closed, but enough light shone through the gap at the bottom to dimly illuminate the dark hall outside. A pair of undead servants flanked the doors, awaiting Garrett's arrival. The mummified zombies, dressed in brocade doublets, watched his approach with milk-white eyes. They seemed to smile at him, though Garrett knew it was only the way their shrunken lips were drawn back over their polished teeth. Their joints creaked as they reached to pull the doors open for him.

  The brightness of the room beyond dazzled Garrett's eyes momentarily, and he marveled that Uncle would have lit so many lamps for their evening meal. Then Garrett's face broke into a broad grin when he saw the table heaped with food and presents, and every necromancer he knew standing beside it.

  "Happy Birthday Garrett!" they called in unison.

  Uncle Tinjin strode forward and placed his hand on Garrett's shoulder, ushering the bewildered boy into the room.

  "Three years ago today," Tinjin said, "we gained a new member of our rather unusual family."

  The necromancers laughed and raised their wine cups in toast. More than a few of the younger men in the room called Tinjin "Uncle", though, to Garrett's knowledge, the old man had no blood relations at all. He was a mentor, and a father to the fatherless, well-respected and well-loved.

  "Thirteen is a lucky number for us," Tinjin said, "and a boy who's survived for thirteen years shows promise of surviving long enough to pursue a vocation."

  "Why, he could be a river boat captain!" Maximilian Zara cried out with mock sincerity. The dark-haired young man with the crooked grin was one of Tinjin's orphans, a brilliant necromancer, and the closest thing Garrett had to an older brother.

  "He's shown quite an aptitude for tomb-robbery, from what I've heard," said Jitlowe, a gaunt necromancer from Zhad. He had a colorless glass eye that seemed perfectly suited to his eternally deadpan expression. He never told them what he had done to earn banishment from the opulent delta state, and everyone seemed to prefer not knowing.

  "That's hardly a noteworthy skill in present company," said Cenick. The man's runic facial tattoos, black braided hair, and short, muscular build seemed incongruous with his immaculately tailored robe and impeccable manners. The twin blades hanging from his belt, two long and wickedly curved knives, were the only souvenirs he retained from the savage jungles of Neshat where Tinjin had found him as a boy.