Martha Wells - The Death Of The Necromancer

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Martha Wells’s brilliant novels The Element of Fire and City of Bones heralded an exciting new voice in

fantasy and garnered huge critical acclaim. Now she presents her most major novel to date—a marvelous

tale of passion, danger, magic and deadly adventure...

the Death of the Necromancer

Nicholas Valiarde is a passionate, embittered nobleman with an enigmatic past. Consumed by thoughts

of vengeance, he is consoled only by thoughts of the beautiful, dangerous Madeline. He is also the

greatest thief in all of Ile-Rien...

On the gaslit streets of the city, he assumes the guise of a master criminal, stealing jewels from wealthy

nobles to finance his quest for vengeance: the murder of Count Montesq. Montesq orchestrated the

wrongful execution of Nicholas’s beloved godfather on false charges of necromancy—the art of

divination through communion with the dead—a practice long outlawed in the kingdom of Ile-Rien.

But now Nicholas’s murderous mission is being interrupted by a series of eerie, unexplainable, even fatal

events. Someone with tremendous magical powers is opposing him. Children vanish, corpses assume the

visage of real people, mortal spells are cast, and traces of necromantic power that hasn’t been used for

centuries are found. And when a spiritualist unwittingly leads Nicholas to a decrepit old house, the truly

monstrous nature of his peril finally emerges in harrowing detail.

Nicholas and his band of criminals and disgraced officers must confront and destroy an ancient and

awesome evil rising from its hideous darkness to conquer all. even the help of Ile-Rien’s greatest sorcerer

may not be sufficient, for Nicholas faces a woefully mismatched battle—with unthinkable horrors in store

for the loser.

Praise for

Martha Wells

For The Death of a Necromancer

“A seamless blend of fantasy, history, magic and mystery. This is the kind of world that you come to

believe exists, somewhere; a place you leave only reluctantly.”

Sean Russell

“The vivid setting of a gas-lit city, equal parts decadence and elegance, would eclipse lesser characters

than these. Character construction and setting are so deftly interwoven with the swiftly moving plot that

the prose literally swept me away. The reader should be warned in advance, it is difficult to close the

covers of this book.”

Robin Hobb

“Wells never fails to intrigue, amuse, and fascinate with her imaginative world, wonderful characters, and

expert grasp of narrative style. I highly recommend anything by Martha Wells— and I wish she wrote

faster!”

Jennifer Roberson

For The City of Bones

“A bravura performance...compellingly plotted, stunningly original in concept, and glowing with utterly

convincing detail.”

Kirkus

For The Element of Fire

“A fascinating read...I had to finish it up in one fell swoop, staying up until 2:30 to do so!”

Anne McCaffrey

THE DEATH OF THE NECROMANCER

Martha Wells

AVON • EOS

Copyright notice

Contents

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

To Matthew Bialer

Chapter One

contents - next

The most nerve-racking commissions, Madeline thought, were the ones that required going in through

the front door. This front door was simply more imposing than most.

Lit by gray moonlight, the monumental facade of Mondollot House loomed over her, studded with

lighted windows. High above the street the pediment was a passionately carved relief of the hosts of

Heaven and Hell locked in battle, the shrouds of doomed saints and the veils of the angels flying like

banners or hanging down to drape gracefully over the stone canopies of the upper windows. A quartet of

musicians played from an open balcony somewhere above, entertaining the guests as they arrived. Glass

sconces around the doorway had been an unfortunate modern addition; the flicker and peculiar color of

gaslight made it look as if the door was meant to be the mouth of Hell itself. Not a serendipitous choice,

but the Duchess of Mondollot has never been singled out for restraint or taste, Madeline thought,

but kept an ironic smile to herself.

Despite the frosty night air and the chill wind off the river, there were other guests milling around on

the wide marble portico, admiring the famous pediment. Madeline tucked her hands more firmly into her

muff and shivered, partly from the cold, partly from anticipation. Her coachman received his instructions

and urged the horses away, and her escort Captain Reynard Morane strolled back to her. She saw the

flakes of snow on the shoulders of his caped greatcoat, and hoped the weather held until later tonight, at

least. One disaster at a time she thought, with an impatient shake of her head. Let’s just get inside the

place first.

Reynard extended an arm to her. “Ready, m’dear?”

She took it with a faint smile. “Very ready, sir.”

They joined the crowd of other guests milling toward the entrance.

The tall doors stood open, light and warmth spilling out onto the scuffed paving stones. A servant

stood to either side, wearing the knee breeches and silver braided coats of old style livery. The man

taking the invitations wore the dark swallowtail coat of fashionable evening dress. I don’t imagine this is

the butler, Madeline thought grimly. Reynard handed over their invitation and she held her breath as the

man opened the linen-paper envelope.

She had come by it honestly, though if she had needed to she could have gone to the finest forger in

the city: an old man nearly blind, who worked in a dank cellar off the Philosopher’s Cross. But she could

sense something stirring in the eaves overhead, in the dimness high above the reach of the gas lamps.

Madeline did not look up and if Reynard was aware of it he betrayed no reaction. Their informant had

said a familiar of the sorcerer who protected the house would guard the door, an old and powerful

familiar to spy out any magical devices brought in by the guests. Madeline clutched her reticule more

tightly, though none of the objects in it were magical. If it were searched, there was no way a sorcerer of

any competence whatsoever could fail to recognize what they were for.

“Captain Morane and Madame Denare,” the man said. “Welcome.” He handed the invitation off to

one of the footmen and bowed them in.

They were ushered into the vestibule where servants appeared to collect Madeline’s fur-trimmed

paletot and muff and Reynard’s greatcoat, cane and top hat. A demure maid was suddenly kneeling at

Madeline’s feet, brushing away a few traces of gravel that had adhered to the hem of her satin skirts,

using a little silver brush and pan specially designed for the purpose. Madeline took Reynard’s arm again

and they passed through the entryway into the noisy crush of the main reception area.

Even with the carpets covered by linen drapers and the more delicate furniture removed, the hall was

opulent. Gilded cherubs peered down at the milling guests from the heavy carved molding and the ceilings

were frescoed with ships sailing along the western coast. They joined the crowd ascending the double

staircases and passed through the doors at the top and into the ballroom.

Beeswax, Madeline thought. They must have been at the floors all night. Beeswax, and

sandalwood and patchouli, and sweat, heavy in the air. Sweat from the warm presence of so many

finely-clothed bodies, and sweat from fear. It was all so familiar. She realized she was digging her gloved

nails into Reynard’s arm in a death grip, and forced her fingers to unclench. He patted her hand

distractedly, surveying the room.

The first dance had already started and couples swirled across the floor. The ballroom was large even

for a house this size, with draped windows leading out onto balconies along the right hand side and doors

allowing access to card rooms, refreshment and retiring rooms along the left. Across the back was a

clever arrangement of potted winter roses, screening four musicians already hard at work on the cornet,

piano, violin, and cello. The room was lit by a multitude of chandeliers burning expensive wax candles,

because the vapors from gas were thought to ruin fine fabrics.

Madeline saw the Duchess of Mondollot herself, leading out the Count of ... of something, she

thought, distractedly. I can’t keep them straight anymore. It wasn’t the nobility they had to be wary of,

but the sorcerers. There were three of them standing against the far wall, older gentlemen in dark

swallowtail coats, wearing jeweled presentation medals from Lodun. One of them wore a ruby brooch

and sash of the Order of Fontainon, but even without it Madeline would have known him. He was

Rahene Fallier, the court sorcerer. There would be women sorcerers here too, more dangerous and

difficult to spot because they would not be wearing presentation medals or orders with their ball gowns.

And the university at Lodun had only allowed women students for the past ten years. Any female

sorcerers present would be only a little older than Madeline herself.

She nodded to a few acquaintances in the crowd and she knew others recognized her; she had

played the Madwoman in Isle of Stars to packed houses all last season. That wouldn’t affect their plans,

since everyone of any wealth or repute in Vienne and the surrounding countryside would be in this house

at some time tonight. And of course, someone was bound to recognize Reynard. . ..

“Morane.” The unpleasantly sharp voice was almost at Madeline’s left ear. She snapped her fan at

the speaker and lifted an eyebrow in annoyance. He took the hint and stepped back, still glowering at

Reynard, and said, “I didn’t think you showed yourself in polite society, Morane.” The speaker was

about her own age, wearing dress regimentals of one of the cavalry brigades, a lieutenant from his

insignia. The Queen’s Eighth, Madeline realized. Ah. Reynard’s old brigade.

“Is this polite society?” Reynard asked. He stroked his mustache and eyed the speaker with some

amusement. “By God, man, it can’t be. You’re here.”

There was a contemptuous edge to the younger man’s smile. “Yes, I’m here. I suppose you have an

invitation.” It was too brittle for good-natured banter. There were two other men behind the lieutenant,

one in regimentals, the other in civilian dress, both watching intently. “But you always were good at

wiggling in where you weren’t wanted.”

Easily, Reynard said, “You should know, my boy.”

They hadn’t drawn the eye of anyone else in the noisy crowd yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Madeline hesitated for a heartbeat—she hadn’t meant them to become conspicuous in this way, but it

was a ready-made diversion—then said, “You’ll excuse me a moment, my dear.”

“All for the best, my dear. This would probably bore you.” Reynard gave her all his attention, turning

toward her, kissing her hand, acting the perfect escort. The young lieutenant nodded to her, somewhat

uncomfortably, and as Madeline turned away without acknowledging him, she heard Reynard ask

casually, “Run away from any battles lately?”

Once away she moved along the periphery of the dancers, heading for the doors in the left hand wall.

A lady alone in the ballroom, without a male escort or other ladies as companions, would be remarked

on. A lady moving briskly toward the retiring rooms would be assumed to require a maid’s assistance in

some delicate matter and be politely ignored. Once past the retiring rooms, a lady alone would be

assumed to be on her way to a private tryst, and also be politely ignored.

She passed through one of the doorways leading off the ballroom and down the hall. It was quiet and

the lamps had been turned low, the light sparking off the mirrors, the polished surfaces of the

spindly-legged console tables and the porcelain vases stuffed with out-of-season flowers. For such a

luxury the duchess had her own forcing-houses; the gold flowers Madeline wore in her aigrette and on

her corsage were fabric, in deference to the season. She passed a room with a partly open door,

catching a glimpse of a young maid kneeling to pin up the torn hem of an even younger girl’s gown, heard

a woman speak sharply in frustration. Past another door where she could hear male voices in

conversation and a woman’s low laugh. Madeline’s evening slippers were noiseless on the polished

wood floor and no one came out.

She was in the old wing of the house now. The long hall became a bridge over cold silent rooms thirty

feet down and the heavy stone walls were covered by tapestry or thin veneers of exotic wood instead of

lathe and plaster. There were banners and weapons from long-ago wars, still stained with rust and blood,

and ancient family portraits dark with the accumulation of years of smoke and dust. Other halls branched

off, some leading to even older sections of the house, others to odd little cul-de-sacs lit by windows with

an unexpected view of the street or the surrounding buildings. Music and voices from the ballroom grew

further and further away, as if she was at the bottom of a great cavern, hearing echoes from the living

surface.

She chose the third staircase she passed, knowing the servants would still be busy toward the front of

the house. She caught up her skirts—black gauze with dull gold stripes over black satin and ideal for

melding into shadows—and quietly ascended. She gained the third floor without trouble but going up to

the fourth passed a footman on his way down. He stepped to the wall to let her have the railing, his head

bowed in respect and an effort not to see who she was, ghosting about Mondollot House and obviously

on her way to an indiscreet meeting. He would remember her later, but there was no help for it.

The hall at the landing was high and narrower than the others, barely ten feet across. There were

more twists and turns to find her way through, stairways that only went up half a floor, and dead ends,

but she had committed a map of the house to memory in preparation for this and so far it seemed

accurate.

Madeline found the door she wanted and carefully tested the handle. It was unlocked. She frowned.

One of Nicholas Valiarde’s rules was that if one was handed good fortune one should first stop to ask

the price, because there usually was a price. She eased the door open, saw the room beyond lit only by

reflected moonlight from undraped windows. With a cautious glance up and down the corridor, she

pushed it open enough to see the whole room. Book-filled cases, chimney piece of carved marble with a

caryatid-supported mantle, tapestry-back chairs, pier glasses, and old sideboard heavy with family plate.

A deal table supporting a metal strongbox. Now we’ll see, she thought. She took a candle from the

holder on the nearest table, lit it from the gas sconce in the hall, then slipped inside and closed the door

behind her.

The undraped windows worried her. This side of the house faced Ducal Court Street and anyone

below could see the room was occupied. Madeline hoped none of the Duchess’s more alert servants

stepped outside for a pipe or a breath of air and happened to look up. She went to the table and

upended her reticule next to the solid square shape of the strongbox. Selecting the items she needed out

of the litter of scent vials, jewelry she had decided not to wear, and a faded string of Aderassi

luck-beads, she set aside snippets of chicory and thistle, a toadstone, and a paper screw containing salt.

Their sorcerer-advisor had said that the ward that protected Mondollot House from intrusion was an

old and powerful one. Destroying it would take much effort and be a waste of a good spell.

Circumventing it temporarily would be easier and far less likely to attract notice, since wards were

invisible to anyone except a sorcerer using gascoign powder in his eyes or the new Aether-Glasses

invented by the Parscian wizard Negretti. The toadstone itself held the necessary spell, dormant and

harmless, and in its current state invisible to the familiar who guarded the main doors. The salt sprinkled

on it would act as a catalyst and the special properties of the herbs would fuel it. Once all were placed in

the influence of the ward’s key object, the ward would withdraw to the very top of the house. When the

potency of the salt wore off, it would simply slip back into place, probably before their night’s work had

been discovered. Madeline took her lock picks out of their silken case and turned to the strongbox.

There was no lock. She felt the scratches on the hasp and knew there had been a lock here recently,

a heavy one, but it was nowhere to be seen. Damn. I have a not-so-good feeling about this. She lifted

the flat metal lid.

Inside should be the object that tied the incorporeal ward to the corporeal bulk of Mondollot House.

Careful spying and a few bribes had led them to expect not a stone as was more common, but a ceramic

object, perhaps a ball, of great delicacy and age.

On a velvet cushion in the bottom of the strongbox were the crushed remnants of something once

delicate and beautiful as well as powerful, nothing left now but fine white powder and fragments of

cerulean blue. Madeline gave vent to an unladylike curse and slammed the lid down. Some bastard’s

been here before us.

“There’s nothing here,” Mother Hebra whispered. She crouched in the brick rubble at the base of the

barred gate, hands outstretched. She smiled and nodded to herself. “Aye, not a peep of a nasty old

sorcerer’s ward. She must’ve done it.”

“She’s somewhat early,” Nicholas muttered, tucking away his pocketwatch. “But better that than

late.” Tools clanked as the others scrambled forward and he reached down to help the old woman up

and out of the way.

The oil lamps flickered in the damp cold air, the only light in the brick-lined tunnel. They had removed

the layer of bricks blocking the old passage into Mondollot House’s cellars, but Mother Hebra had

stopped them before they could touch the rusted iron of the gate, wanting to test to see if it was within the

outer perimeter of the ward that protected the house. Nicholas could sense nothing unusual about the

gate, but he wasn’t willing to ignore the old witch’s advice. Some household wards were designed to

frighten potential intruders, others to trap them, and he was no sorcerer to know the difference.

The tunnel was surprisingly clean and for all its dampness the stale air was free of any stench. Most

inhabitants of Vienne, if they thought of the tunnels beneath the city at all, thought of them as filthy

adjuncts to the sewers, fit for nothing human. Few knew of the access passages to the new underground

rail system, which had to be kept clear and relatively dry for the train workmen.

Crack and Cusard attacked the bars with hacksaws and Nicholas winced at the first high-pitched

scrape. They were too far below street level to draw the attention of anyone passing above; he hoped the

sound wasn’t echoing up through the house’s cellars, alerting the watchmen posted on the upper levels.

Mother Hebra tugged at his coat sleeve. She was half Nicholas’s height, a walking bundle of dirty

rags with only a tuft of gray hair and a pair of bright brown eyes to prove there was anything within. “So

you don’t forget later. . . .”

“Oh, I wouldn’t forget you, my dear.” He produced two silver coins and put them in the withered little

hand she extended. As a witch, she wasn’t much, but it was really her discretion he was paying for. The

hand disappeared back into her rags and the whole bundle shook, apparently with joy at being paid.

Cusard had cut through several bars already and Crack was almost finished with his side. “Rusted

through, mostly,” Cusard commented, and Crack grunted agreement.

“Not surprising; it’s much older than this tunnel,” Nicholas said. The passage had once led to another

Great House, torn down years past to make way for Ducal Court Street, which stretched not too many

feet above their heads.

The last bar gave way, and Cusard and Crack straightened to lift the gate out of the way. Nicholas

said, “You can go now, Mother.”

The prompt payment had won her loyalty. “Nay, I’ll wait.” The bundle of rags settled against the wall.

Crack set his end of the gate down and turned to regard Mother Hebra critically. He was a lean,

predatory figure, his shoulders permanently stooped from a term at hard labor at the city prison. His eyes

were colorless and opaque. The magistrates had called him a born killer, an animal entirely without

human feeling. Nicholas had found that to be somewhat of an exaggeration, but knew that if Crack

thought Hebra meant to betray them he would act without hesitation. The little witch hissed at him, and

Crack turned away.

Nicholas stepped over the rubble and into the lowest cellar of Mondollot House.

There was no new red brick here. Their lamps revealed walls of rough-cut stone, the ceiling arched

with thick pillars to support the weight of the structure above. A patina of dust covered everything and

the air was dank and stale.

Nicholas led the way toward the far wall, the lamp held high. Obtaining the plans for this house,

stored in a chest of moldering family papers at the Mondollot estate in Upper Bannot, had been the

hardest part of this particular scheme so far. They were not the original plans, which would have long

since turned to dust, but a builder’s copy made only fifty years ago. Nicholas only hoped the good

Duchess hadn’t seen fit to renovate her upper cellars since then.

They reached a narrow stair that curved up the wall, vanishing into darkness at the edge of their

lamplight. Crack shouldered past Nicholas to take the lead and Nicholas didn’t protest. Whether Crack

had sensed something wrong or was merely being cautious, he had learned not to ignore the man’s

instincts.

The stairs climbed about thirty feet up the wall, to a narrow landing with a wooden ironbound door. A

small portal in the center revealed that it would open into a dark empty space of indeterminate size, lit

only by the ghost of reflected light coming from a door or another stairwell on the far wall. Nicholas held

the lamp steady so Cusard could work at the lock with his picks. As the door groaned and swung open,

Crack stepped forward to take the lead again. Nicholas stopped him. “Is something wrong?”

Crack hesitated. The flicker of lamplight made it even harder than usual to read his expression. His

face was sallow and the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes had been drawn there by pain and

circumstance rather than age. He wasn’t much older than Nicholas’s thirty years, but he could have easily

passed for twice that. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Don’t feel right.”

And that’s the most we’ll have out of him, Nicholas thought. He said, “Go on then, but remember,

don’t kill anyone.”

Crack acknowledged that with an annoyed wave and slipped through the door.

“Him and his feelings,” Cusard said, glancing around the shadowed cellar and shivering theatrically.

He was an older man, thin and with a roguish cast of feature that was misleading—he was the nicest thief

that Nicholas had ever met. He was a confidence man by vocation and far more used to plying his trade

in the busy streets than to practicing his cracksman’s skills underground. “It don’t half worry you,

especially when he don’t have the words he needs to tell what he does think is wrong.”

Nicholas absentmindedly agreed. He was wondering if Madeline and Reynard had managed to leave

the house yet. If Madeline had been discovered interfering with the ward. ... If Madeline had been

discovered, we would surely know by now. He pushed the worry to the back of his mind; Madeline

was quite capable of taking care of herself.

Crack appeared at the gap in the doorway, whispering, “All clear. Come on.”

Nicholas turned his lamp down to a bare flicker of flame, handed it to Cusard, and slipped through

the door.

Hesitating a moment for his eyes to adjust, he could see the room was vast and high-ceilinged, lined

by huge rotund shapes. Old wooden tuns for wine, or possibly water, if the house had no well. Probably

empty now. He moved forward, following the almost weightless scrape of Crack’s boots on the dusty

stone. The faint light from the opposite end of the chamber came from a partly open door. He saw

Crack’s shadow pass through the door without hesitating and hurried after him.

Reaching it, he stopped, frowning. The heavy lock on the thick plank door had been ripped out and

hung by a few distended screws. What in blazes. . . . Nicholas wondered. It was certainly beyond

Crack’s strength. Then he saw that the lock had been torn out from the other side, by someone or

something already within the cellar room. The angle of the distended metal allowed no other conclusion.

That is hardly encouraging.

Nicholas stepped through the door and found himself at their goal. A long low cellar, modernized with

brick-lined walls and gas sconces. One sconce was still lit, revealing man-high vaults in the walls, each

crammed with stacked crates, metal chests, or barrels. Except for the one only ten paces away, which

was filled with the bulk of a heavy safe.

The single lamp also revealed Crack, standing and watching Nicholas thoughtfully, and the dead man

stretched at his feet.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow and came further into the room. There were two other bodies sprawled

on the stone flags just past the safe.

Crack said, “I didn’t do it.”

“I know you didn’t.” Engineering Crack’s escape from the Vienne prison had been one of the first

acts of Nicholas’s adult criminal career; he knew Crack wouldn’t lie to him. Nicholas sat on his heels for

a closer look at the first corpse. Startled, he realized the red effusion around the man’s head wasn’t

merely blood but brain matter. The skull had been smashed in by a powerful blow. Behind him, Cusard

swore in a low voice.

Exonerated, Crack crouched down to examine his find. The dead man’s suit was plain and dark,

probably the uniform of a hired watchman, and the coat was streaked with blood and the filthy muck

from the floor of the cellar. Crack pointed to the pistol still tucked into the man’s waistband and Nicholas

asked, “Are they all like this?”

Crack nodded. “Except one’s had his throat torn out.”

“Someone’s been before us!” Cusard whispered.

“Safe ain’t touched,” Crack disagreed. “No sign of anyone. Got something else to show you,

though.”

Nicholas pulled off his glove to touch the back of the dead man’s neck, then wiped his hand on his

trousers. The body was cold, but the cellar air was damp and chill, so it really meant little. He didn’t

hesitate. “Cusard, begin on the safe, if you please. And don’t disturb the bodies.” He got to his feet to

follow Crack.

Cusard stared. “We going on with it then?”

“We didn’t come all this way for naught,” Nicholas said, and followed Crack to the other end of the

cellar.

Nicholas took one of the lamps, though he didn’t turn the flame up; Crack didn’t seem to need the

light. Finding his way unerringly, he went to the end of the long cellar, passing all the boxes and bales that

contained the stored wealth of the Mondollot family, and rounded a corner.

Nicholas’s eyes were well-adjusted to the dark and he saw the faint light ahead. Not pure yellow

firelight, or greasy gaslight, but a dim white radiance, almost like moonglow. It came from an arched

doorway, cut into a wall that was formed of old cut stone. There had been a door barring it once, a

heavy wooden door of oak that had hardened over time to the strength of iron, that was now torn off its

hinges. Nicholas tried to shift it; it was as heavy as stone. “In here,” Crack said, and Nicholas stepped

through the arch.

The radiance came from ghost-lichen growing in the groined ceiling. There was just enough of it to

illuminate a small chamber, empty except for a long stone slab. Nicholas turned the flame of the lamp up

slowly, exposing more of the room. The walls were slick with moisture and the air stale. He moved to the

slab and ran his hand across the top, examining the result on his gloved fingers. The stone there was

relatively free of dust and the oily moisture, yet the sides of the slab were as dirty as the walls and floor.

He lifted the lamp and bent down, trying to get a better angle. Yes, there was something here. Its

outline was roughly square. Oblong. A box, perhaps, he thought. Coffin-sized, at least.

He glanced up at Crack, who was watching intently. Nicholas said, “Someone entered the cellar, by a

route yet undetermined, stumbled on the guards, or was stumbled on by them, possibly when he broke

the lock on the older cellar to search it. Our intruder killed to prevent discovery, which is usually the act

of a desperate and foolish person.” It was Nicholas’s belief that murder was almost always the result of

poor planning. There were so many ways of making people do what you wanted other than killing them.

“Then he found this room, broke down the door with a rather disturbing degree of strength, removed

something that had lain here undisturbed for years, and retired, probably the same way he entered.”

Crack nodded, satisfied. “He ain’t here no more. I’ll go bank on that.”

“It’s a pity.” And now it was doubly important to leave no trace of their presence. If I’m going to be

hanged for murder, I’d prefer it to be a murder I actually committed. Nicholas consulted his watch

in the lamplight, then tucked it away again. “Cusard should be almost finished with the safe. You go back

for the others and start moving the goods out. I want to look around here a little more.” There were six

other men waiting up in the tunnel, whose help was necessary if they were to transport the gold quickly.

Crack, Cusard, and Lamane, who was Cusard’s second in command, were the only ones who knew him

as Nicholas Valiarde. To Mother Hebra and the others hired only for this job, he was Donatien, a

shadowy figure of the Vienne underworld who paid well for this sort of work and punished indiscretion

just as thoroughly.

Crack nodded and stepped to the door. Hesitating, he said again, “I’ll go bank he’s not here no

more. . . .”

“But you would appreciate it if I exercised the strictest caution,” Nicholas finished for him. “Thank

you.”

Crack vanished into the darkness and Nicholas stooped to examine the floor. The filth and moisture

on the pitted stone revealed footmarks nicely. He found the tracks of his own boots, and Crack’s, noting

that the first time his henchman had approached the room he had come only to the threshold. In the

distance he could hear the others, muted exclamations as the new arrivals saw the dead men, the rumble

of Crack’s voice, a restrained expression of triumph from everyone as Cusard opened the safe. But there

were no footmarks left by their hypothetical intruder. Kneeling to make a more careful survey, and ruining

the rough fabric of his workman’s coat and breeches against the slimy stone in the process, Nicholas

found three scuffles he couldn’t positively attribute to either Crack or himself, but that was all. He sat up

on his heels, annoyed. He was willing to swear his analysis of the room was correct. There was no

mistaking that some object had been removed from the plinth, and recently.

Something that had lain in this room for years, in silence, with the ethereal glow of the ghost-lichen

gently illuminating it.

He got to his feet, meaning to go back to the guards’ corpses and examine the floor around them

more thoroughly, if the others hadn’t already obliterated any traces when carrying out the Duchess’s

stock of gold.

He stepped past the ruined door and something caught his eye. He turned his head sharply toward the

opposite end of the corridor, where it curved away from the vaults and into the older wine-cellars.

Something white fluttered at the end of that corridor, distinct against the shadows. Nicholas turned up the

lamp, drawing breath to shout for Crack—an instant later the breath was knocked out of him.

It moved toward him faster than thought and between the first glimpse of it and his next heartbeat it

was on him. A tremendous blow struck him flat on his back and the creature was on top of him. Eyes,

bulging because the flesh around them had withered away, stared at him in black hate out of a face gray

as dead meat. It bared teeth like an animal’s, long and curving. It was wrapped in a once-white shroud,

now filthy and tattered. Nicholas jammed his forearm up into its face, felt the teeth tearing through his

sleeve. He had kept his grip on the lantern, though the glass had broken and the oil was burning his hand.

He swung it toward the thing’s head with terror-inspired strength.

Whether it was the blow or the touch of burning oil, it shrieked and tore itself away. The oil had set

the sleeve of Nicholas’s coat afire; he rolled over, crushing the flames out against the damp stone.

Crack, Cusard, and Lamane were suddenly clustered around him. Nicholas tried to speak, choked

on the lungful of smoke he had inhaled, and finally gasped, “After him.”

Crack bolted immediately down the dark corridor. Cusard and Lamane stared at Nicholas, then at

each other. “Not you,” Nicholas said to Cusard. “Take charge of the others. Get them out of here with

the gold.”

“Aye,” Cusard said in relief and scrambled up to run back to the others. Lamane swore but helped

Nicholas to his feet.

Cradling his burned left hand, Nicholas stumbled after Crack. Lamane had a lamp and a pistol; Crack

had gone after the thing empty-handed and in the dark.

“Why are we following it?” Lamane whispered.

Martha Wells - The Death Of The Necromancer

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