IGMS Issue 23 Read online

  Looking at the corpse, I almost smiled thinking she had made a joke. Thankfully, I remembered the Starling wasn't one to appreciate flippancy. Of any kind.

  Especially not from a lowly mortician.

  "Yes, madame," I answered. "Quite dead."

  Simone reached to a side table, retrieved the oil lamp I had placed there, and held the flame over Carmichael's face. In the flicker of shadow and light, I glimpsed a woman who might have once been filled with love, compassion, and humanity as she reached out with trembling hand to brush the dead man's cheek. As if sensing my observation, she glared at me with such vehemence that I stepped back. Whether from fear or respect mattered little; when dealing with the Cabal they were one and the same.

  Many years of servicing the dead and their bereaved had taught me how to become innocuous; achieve an aura of invisibility so that anyone may grieve without embarrassment. Under her penetrating glare I retreated to those skills, fastidiously tending to the implements of my trade.

  "You are alone?" she asked.

  I nodded, unwilling to refute the obvious.

  She continued to stare until I acquiesced to her silent demand for a more detailed explanation.

  "Wielding magic is a dangerous occupation, what with magical duels and experiments gone awry. To have a wizard come to me in one piece, let alone die of old age, is practically a treat. Well, treat is too strong a word, but you know what I mean." I flashed a nervous glance at my unwanted guest, praying I hadn't offended. But she had transferred her attention to Carmichael and didn't appear to notice.

  "However, when it does happen," I continued, "precautions are taken. You might have noticed the crackling of static when you first entered the preparation room. No need to be alarmed, the static serves only as a warning. Consider the various spells used in duels -- wards of protection absorbing malicious energy and such. Much of that magic is residual and needs diffusing. Some of these spells are ingenious in their casting and difficult to detect. Just ask my predecessor." Smiling, I pointed at the darkened silhouette imprinted on the ceiling above the table. This usually guaranteed a gasp, or at the least some nervous chuckling.

  Simone the Starling merely tapped the cleft in her porcelain chin with a long finger. "Do not mock me, Undertaker."

  "Of course not, madame. My intention was to --"

  "I don't give a rat's ass of your intentions, you tedious little worm. Just finish your work. You say he is dead. Keep him that way, and when his funeral is finished, I want him burned."

  "Cremated, madame? That contradicts the wishes of --"

  "Burned," she repeated in a tone that brooked no further argument. "And give the ashes to me. Fail me, and I'll have your ashes instead. Understood?"

  "Of course, madam, but --" The door slammed shut, followed by a crackle of static, reminding me to beware the living as much as the dead.

  II. The Squirrel

  A full minute passed before I allowed myself a deep, cleansing breath and returned to work, only to be interrupted again by the flap of wings at my window.

  "Ah, Gunther." I smiled at the copper-feathered falcon that was both pet and familiar. "Now you show up? Coward. What have you there?" Grasped within Gunther's talons was a bloody clump of fur. "What did I tell you about bringing your food here."

  The falcon squawked indifference before tearing into the small mouse with its hooked beak.

  I shook my head. So deep is the wizard's connection to his familiar that some, like the Cabal, have taken their names as titles. Some even take the bond to the celestial plane, intertwining the human soul with the creature's spirit.

  In my case, falcons are bred in an ancestral rookery. Once a line of wealthy and powerful mages dating back to the First Age, the last few centuries had eroded my family's fortunes and reputation. I managed to liberate Gunther shortly before shady usurers claimed the rookery, along with my father's head, for their own.

  All I had was my falcon familiar and the meager earnings of my chosen profession to sustain me. Carmichael's service would pay my debts and still put food on the table for a year.

  However, Simone's perfume mingling with the incense and embalming fluid left me nauseous, and my future uncertain.

  Making matters worse, my client was far from cooperative. Carmichael's body appeared unaffected by the ravages of even the most subtle decomposition. None too surprising. Most wizards cast numerous spells to prolong their lives well past mortal time lines. Usually death is the ultimate expiration date for such spells, leaving it to fall upon the undertaker to combat the rapid deterioration with reagents, magic, or both. Otherwise, the viewing would be of nothing but a pile of dust and bone.

  Carmichael, however, had not aged a second past his dying; a testament to his immense power. Spells of such strength usually used some talisman to assist the magic. If I was to continue, I needed to find this linchpin.

  Equally infamous for his vanity as for his magical prowess, Carmichael had maintained a robust physique. Adding to his handsome features was a trimmed beard and a mane of long golden hair. The sweet scent of lemon pomade added to the already heady concoction of incense and perfume filling the air, and I felt the steady throb of a growing headache.

  Moving the head left to right -- sometimes talismans are as simple as earrings -- the tresses parted, revealing a noticeable indent where a thick lock had been shorn away. But before I could give the matter further consideration the door to my mortuary burst open accompanied by another electric crackle.

  I would have thought my visitor some mad seer from the eastern continent, with his frail build, dark skin, and scraggly hair, but his attire betrayed wealth, and his command of the room belied his power.

  As the Cabal's second most powerful mage, Durst the Squirrel was nothing like the timid creature he'd chosen as his familiar. "Brother!" He shuffled on slippered feet to Carmichael's side. "Oh, my brother, how can you leave me thus?"

  Thus? No one spoke like that, even in grief and I pressed my lips tight. Smiling would have been impolite. Gaunt face wet with tears, pallor that of chalk, green eyes red rimmed, Durst was the epitome of mourning.

  He was also considered the most devious of the Cabal, and only too happy to kill a man for the sheer pleasure of watching a painful death.

  Gathering my thoughts, I asked, "How may I serve you, sir?"

  The Squirrel's expression was pure anguish. "Serve me?" He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a thin silvery trail along deep blue velvet. "Not I, but him. Serve my brother, for he is dead and in need of your talents. Make him what he once was. Bring him back to the living if you can. But should that prove too grand a task, then I beg of you, please, grant me the illusion of life. Show me what he once was, so that I may remember him properly. Can you do that, Undertaker? Is that skill within your purview?"

  Despite his posturing, I felt insulted and would have replied in kind if not for whom I was addressing. Though nearly prostrate with grief, he was still Durst, and most dangerous.

  "Of course," I said. "I will do my utmost."

  "You had better." Something flashed in his green eyes that was far from mourning. Then, as if to balance malevolence with the ludicrous, he swooned, draping himself over Carmichael, resting his head upon the dead wizard's chest.

  I waited patiently, finding the scene morbidly discomfiting until Durst regained some composure and, standing to his full height, reached out to me.

  My terrified mind was undecided whether to fight or flee.

  Mercifully, his thin arm dropped to his side and he lurched toward the doorway as though the entire experience had exhausted him. He stopped, and, addressing the door, said, "I have but one request of you, Undertaker. I wish to have his body preserved for the ages. Fill him with every preservative you have at hand. Cast every spell at your disposal. Do whatever it takes." He turned, not a trace of grief visible on that ghostly countenance. "I want him well-pickled."

  Suddenly, he threw his head back and wailed to the stone ceil
ing. "Forgive my callousness, my brother!" Facing me again, all tears and pulling at his hair, he said, "Bear witness to my grief, Undertaker. I am beside myself. Should you not grant this simple request, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Of that I promise you."

  Static followed the man through the doorway.

  III. The Owl

  Heart pounding, I reached for a flask of wine hidden among the jars of cosmetic tinctures, drinking until there was no more. "Ah, Gunther," I moaned. "What a mess. How can I possibly fulfill these mad wizard's wishes, not to mention the service and burial requested by Carmichael's estate? The only party, I might add, willing to pay for my services."

  In response, the falcon screeched and glided the short distance to his perch, a pedestal I'd set up beside an enormous hourglass.

  I frowned at the time of day, or night judging by the grains of sand, and rolled back my sleeves for the task at hand. As the only dead wizard in my care, Carmichael required my immediate attention. The rest I left to providence.

  However, the incantation maintaining the condition of Carmichael's corpse was still in effect. At first disconcerting, I recognized a serendipitous opportunity. Should the spell hold, I might regain some precious lost time, requiring nothing more from me than increased diligence during the service and a ready preservation spell should the need arise.

  Buoyed by this plan, I began dressing down the body, readying Carmichael for washing and the more mundane art of cosmetics when the now irksome crackle of static heralded yet another visitor. "Yes," I said with barely checked irritation. "How may I help you?"

  "You may begin by telling me what you're doing," replied a sonorous voice.

  My shoulders dipped in frustration. The Cabal was responsible for the untimely demise of countless wizards and common folk alike, yet not one seemed to understand the basics of undertaking. Of course, I kept this observation to myself. Although Morrow the Owl had a reputation for being even-tempered, he was still a member of this powerful group.

  I answered in a measure tone. "It is customary to wash the body before preparing it for viewing. Every artist needs a clean canvas."

  "So, you consider him a work of art?" Morrow tapped his lips with a delicate finger. "Yes. I think he would like that, although, you must admit he is already perfect. Any one of us can only hope to look half as good when our time comes."

  "Should that most unfortunate time occur, come to my humble mortuary and I guarantee that much and more." I smiled. Business is, after all, business.

  Silence passed between us. The Owl held my gaze, his expression pensive as though considering the meaning of my unabashed invitation.

  A bead of sweat trickled along my back. Who, I wondered, would guarantee the same for me if I couldn't control my tongue around these Cabalists? "I wouldn't worry," I added, praying his levelheadedness was not just rumor. "As I've told the others --"

  "There have been others?"

  "Oh, yes. This has been a most busy night, though I shouldn't be too surprised considering the notoriety of my client. And there is no one more --" My eyes bugged as I choked backed my words.

  "Notorious?" Morrow finished, eyebrows raised. "Perhaps, but brilliant, absolutely. The most brilliant of us all. I've even heard tales he might return from the dead. What do you think of that, Undertaker?"

  My cheeks puffed out and I shrugged. "In all my professional years I've yet to see that happen. Unless you mean necromancy." I stole an apprehensive glance toward Gunther.

  Morrow chuckled at my reaction. "That is exactly what I mean. I'd never dabble in such things, I simply don't have the talent or the courage, but Carmichael was a man of unique intelligence. Only his mind would have been strong enough to tame those dark forces."

  I looked at the dead man and shivered. "Well, sir, I can assure you this body is bereft of life and has not moved under its own power since arriving." Despite my bold statement, I placed a hand on the dead man's very cold, very still chest.

  The Owl's benevolent smile suggested I was too obtuse to see the obvious. "Time will tell," he said. "Until then I'm here to ensure his last wishes are followed."

  "Absolutely," I said too forcefully. "He'll have the finest funeral my establishment can provide, and a grand burial."

  "Good. Very good," said Morrow, his attention drawn to the dim sounds echoing from a small ventilation duct near the ceiling.

  "Oh, don't mind that, sir," I said, dismissing the iron grate with a wave. "Just an old air shaft from before the addition of the viewing room. It, ah, helps me keep on top of my staff, if you catch my meaning." I winked knowingly. "The walls have ears, that sort of thing."

  Morrow shrugged indifference. "I just use magic. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, family wishes. Service and burial, and most importantly, the body is to remain untouched."

  "Untouched? I don't under--"

  "I mean untouched," said Morrow. "As is. Look at him. He is perfection, not some animal to be subjected to your brand of taxidermy."

  Such slander! I would have defended my profession but for this potentially dangerous turn of events.

  "Should any harm come to him," Morrow continued, "I promise a most painful death for you and that crow you keep as a pet." He nodded toward Gunther. "Do we have an understanding?"

  I blinked. "Yes, sir."

  "I don't think we do." He motioned to the sounds made by my industrious staff. "I'll kill them, too, their families and everything they hold dear. All in your name. You will become a curse used to frighten children into behaving and an insult to start tavern brawls. Now, tell me again that you understand, this time louder, so your peons can hear you through your spy hole."

  "Yes, sir," I nearly shouted.

  "Good. And good evening."

  I barely registered the static created by The Owl's departure.

  "So much for being even-tempered," I said to Gunther. Each contradictory demand left me drowning in a deep well with no hope of rescue. I squared my shoulders. "By damn," I said. "If this is to be my final service, let it be my best work."

  IV. The Badger

  As if to mock my bravado, the door crashed aside, rattling jars in their racks and nearly drowning out the static of my cautionary ward. A massive bulk lumbered into my preparation room.

  Why I felt surprise at the sight of Igor the Badger was a mystery. Having been visited by the other members of the Cabal, I should have had some tea brewed for the quintet's final and most ruthless member.

  Spotting Carmichael, the big man stomped unerringly to the body, reached into the folds of his robe, and produced a dagger with a most wickedly curved blade. I had barely enough time to raise a hand in self-defense before, with a bestial grunt, Igor drove the tip deep into Carmichael's chest.

  I stared, dumbfounded.

  "Do what you will, Undertaker," Igor rasped. "Bury him, preserve him, burn him, drive a stick up his ass and put him on display, I don't really care, but you take that knife from his chest and it'll be sticking out of yours."

  He left, taking with him my last hope of survival.

  I stared at the man laying on my table. Carmichael the Ferret: loved, missed, adored, and reviled. Overcome with exhaustion, I slumped upon a work stool and leaned my elbows next to the corpse. "What do you have against me?" I asked.

  More to the question, what did the Cabal have against their erstwhile leader? My gaze lingered on the dagger that poked from Carmichael like a dorsal fin, slowly registering the blood-red ruby pommel, then focusing on the runes etched into the handle.

  Runes bordering on dark magic, or rather, runes used to combat dark magic.

  My scrutiny continued to the missing lock of hair, and like a door opening, my mind made the connection. Terror rippled along my spine and spread throughout every nerve. The world spun in horrified revelation, and I steadied myself before toppling from my stool.

  Necromancy. The darkest of magics.

  True immortality required a vessel to keep the soul from the Abyss. A wizard of any subst
ance would only entrust his familiar with something so important. Using a lock of his own hair, the perfect conduit from the corporeal world to the spiritual world, Carmichael intended to return to his body. For that, he needed to have his corpse kept in as natural a state as possible. But his fellow Cabalists strove to undo him.

  All but one.

  Desperate, I sought other possibilities, but the puzzle pieces fit together in the same twisted mosaic leading to one conclusion.

  Carmichael the Ferret lived within Morrow the Owl.

  My first reaction was to run, head for the hills, change my name and live like a hermit in total isolation. Following that seemingly wise inclination, I began packing and found myself falling into old habits, stuffing jars of embalming reagents into my satchel.

  By the fifth jar, labeled hexa water, another plan began taking shape, far riskier than a life of paranoid hiding, but promising greater returns. A key ingredient to embalming, water from Hexa swamps is quite putrid and, unrefined, dangerously volatile, needing but the slightest spark to ignite it. Another lesson learned too late by the smudge on the ceiling that had been my predecessor.

  With some luck, and no small amount of courage, I might just do to the Cabal what they intended for me.

  V. A Funeral

  The viewing room had been added during my apprenticeship. Constructed of wood and stone with vaulted ceilings and a dais near the front, it was the size of a small banquet hall. At the time there had been good reason. The mortuary once tended to the great and powerful, magical and non-magical, and such celebrity required adequate and elaborate accommodation.

  The Great Plague had changed all that. Cremation on the pyre became common practice, and my once noble profession, evermore considered obsolete, became the subject of ridicule.

  Still, some clung to the old ways, enough for me to eke out a meager existence. When Carmichael's agent knocked on my door -- the only member of the Cabal who has given me that courtesy -- and requested my services, I thought my fortunes had finally changed.