The briny air blew off the bay and ruffled the new coat of Elestran the Phoenix. His exceptionally tailored clothes still tugged at him with foreign fingers. But that’s what the Venaisin fashion of the day called for. It made him feel stiff. Ostentatious. Uneasy. But that should be expected anytime you take on a novel style, he told himself. His knee-length coat splashed with the varied colors of the fiery bird: bright yellows, luminescent oranges, and unmuted reds. That morning, in preparation of the public hanging, the Inspector had Eles transformed. Servants scrubbed, scoured, and perfumed, trimmed and shaped his beard, then cut his hair, dyed it pitch black, and plastered it into place with a substance that made it feel not at all like hair, but rather like fallen pine needles with a few days’ brittle. The lines of his face were filled and smoothed. The skin under his eyes sparkled two shades lighter. His cheeks had the radiance of a boy flush with his first kiss.
He was a new man.
He was Keetie’s man. And, if you’re Keetie’s man, you’re expected to present yourself in a way that exudes profligate spending, power, and vibrant youth. His vanity fueled that part of him that craved those status symbols. As a penniless vagrant, he liked to scoff at the wealthy nobles and their painted faces; but now he wondered if that was real insight, or jealousy. Funny, how quickly a man’s circumstances can flip his belief system, Eles chided himself.
And his circumstances had certainly changed. He stood upon a raised wooden stage next to Inspector Keetie and a half dozen of his men, looking out over the gathering crowd. The stage occupied a place of prominence, situated in the middle of the docks in the merchant district. Keetie wanted the hanging to be seen by foreigners and visitors, a warning to be talked about and carried outside the borders of Venaisin. The spectators comprised an eclectic mix. Plenty appeared to be sailors, whalers no doubt, but just as many looked to be visitors to the city, wealthy and poor.
Eles scanned the edges of the mob. There they were. Two dozen more of Keetie’s soldiers. Dressed as observers, trying to look nonchalant. Waiting for Dargon Lodern to show his face. The trap was set. Kelshar’s hanging would be triumphant, yes, but capturing the Lord of Greyarch in the process would be the stuff of legend. A jewel in the Faros history books. Further proof that Keetie was irreplaceable.
Merchants seized on the opportunity of a captured audience to hawk their wares. In fact, a man haggled over a pair of soft leather boots below where Eles stood, whilst keeping one eye on the dark-skinned woman who waited on the edge of the plank, noose around her neck, lest he miss feeding his morbid fascination with what a person must feel when the rope goes taut.
Eles looked on Kelshar’s back. She faced the expectant crowd in a ratty, tan burlap dress and nothing else. Her arms and legs, cut as if out of stone, flexed with tension. Her toes spread wide for balance and the skin of her feet rubbed coarse and calloused. Long-healed battle scars spread across her forearms, light stitching on dark fabric. Her hands were tied behind her back with leather straps, and she crouched in a wide stance, as if even now, ready to spring in response to some surprise assault.
The crowd must have gathered to Keetie’s liking because he stepped forward to address them.
“Citizens and visitors of Venaisin, City of Dreams and Ancient Curses, capital of this great kingdom of Faros, I present to you the Butcher of Deeprun.”
The crowd stirred and Eles wondered if some in the crowd knew of her, or if the moniker itself was scandalous enough.
Keetie continued, “This woman is the left arm of Dargon Lodern of Greyarch.”
There was no mistaking that name. Some gasped. Others hissed.
“She was captured here on a mission to steal a powerful Venaisin resource for the Kingdom of Ghault. While here, she has been connected to the use of unregistered Magesty, to the abduction of a Venaisin citizen, and to the murder of his valet. Fortunately, I was summoned. Many have come to our ancient streets with ideas of disturbing the dreams, of using what is rightfully ours without consent. Make no mistake, they will be found. They will be caught. They will be punished. Even the mightiest. Even the prized captain of the Lord of Ghault cannot escape our detection.”
The Inspector said our, but Eles knew he wanted to say my. There were other inspectors in Venaisin, to be sure, but none had the legendary reputation Keetie had for sniffing out unregistered broaches of the Tapestry. His must be an irreplaceable talent because the Inspector got whatever he wanted. Eles had only been in his employ for one day and already legions of men were arriving with alchemical equipment and supplies of all kinds. The Inspector had already demanded more truth serums, among other elixirs, so Eles ordered supplies necessary to craft those.
Eles also slipped in other components. Components he needed quickly. Components he spent all night working with.
“And thus, I condemn her to death by hanging.” The crowd murmured as Keetie turned to Eles and spoke in much lower tones, “It’s time, Elestran the Phoenix. Time to shed your past and embrace your new form.”
Eles shivered, though the air off the bay was warm enough, and thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. “Gladly, Inspector. Kelshar’s disdain for me, and my profession, has been ill guarded. I suspect she’d gladly switch roles with me now and kiss me off into the hereafter.” Although he spoke confidently, Eles was anything but confident about what he was about to do. He approached Kelshar slowly and deliberately. He had planned how he wanted to push Kelshar off about a dozen times in his head, and he was determined to do this the right way.
Eles got within a few feet of her quivering back before he stopped.
“Turn around, Rhoanish dog,” he commanded in a voice loud enough to be heard by the hushed crowd.
Kelshar slowly rotated in place. Her gaze bore into Eles’ skull and burned whatever soft matter resided there. It was difficult to determine what had more strength of sinew, the rope, or her neck and shoulders. That rope never worked as hard as it would this day.
Eles took another step forward, dangerously close to Kelshar. The crowd grew uncomfortably quiet as they watched this unmasked, and clearly unnerved, executioner prepare to command his charge to step back.
“You underestimated me. Like everyone underestimates me. Remember that as you get ushered into the catacombs of the dead,” Eles roared.
Quickly, and without warning, Eles grabbed Kelshar’s neck and kissed her cheek with a violent aggression – a sendoff – before pulling away.
Kelshar jerked her head back in surprise. Then, after a quick snarl she whipped her head forward and head-butted Eles with a vicious thump and crack that sent Eles reeling.
Eles’ eyesight blurred and stars swarmed his head.
Kelshar leapt up and seized Eles’ torso with her legs. Her upper body fell back until she was almost upside down, the rope almost taut. The weight of her body threatened to pull Eles off the wooden plank and it was all the alchemist could do to keep his balance while Kelshar’s body flailed and twitched.
The crowd gasped and instinctively backed away.
Keetie’s men rushed forward and wrenched Eles out of Kelshar’s legs, dropping her off into the open space beyond the plank. Kelshar’s head, already so low, didn’t have much of a fall. Rather, the muscular woman spiraled and spun in the shape of an inverted cone.
Eles fell back onto his rear and watched the Rhoanish warrior twirl like a ghoulish pendulum.
It would be a slow suffocation. The most painful kind.
Just the way Eles wanted it.
Kelshar’s body twitched and shook as it raged against shutting down. Finally, as the twirling slowed, the woman went limp.
Eles scanned the crowd. No sign of Dargon. It would have been foolhardy for Dargon to try to save his friend, but still…
He stood up and walked back to where Keetie stood.
The Inspector raised his chin to speak. “Not very graceful, eh?”
Eles’ guts tightened. He wanted so much to impress Keetie.
“Graceful I’m not,” Eles wiped at the blood under his nose. It stung something awful, but he didn’t think his nose broken.
“No. But I liked the kiss, as dangerous as it was. Very Keetie-ish.”
Eles’ muscles relaxed as he turned to look back at the limp body of Kelshar swaying in the breeze. A seagull squawked high overhead and Eles wondered how long the body would be allowed to dangle.
* * * *
This was still the part of alchemy that Eles detested. Any alchemist worth the title worked with the bodies of those who have recently been ushered to Death’s cold foyer. A hands-on knowledge of anatomy was critical to the craft. Most apprentices spent a good deal of time embalming for their masters. Preserving the body of dead creatures so that they may be mined for the riches found within their mortal coils was still required. The rarity of the creature usually coincided with its value, and bodies of human nobles were reputed to have substantial powers beyond those of their vulgar kin. The most accomplished of royal alchemists knew that to be a fabrication, spread by the nobles themselves. Qolor knew it. Ke’van must know it. Eles wasn’t supposed to know it.
He had the requisite experience with dead bodies, but it didn’t make him enjoy it. The spirits of the recently dead, particularly the younger dead who were most often sought after by alchemists, were mostly angry and bitter. They didn’t take kindly to being dissected and disassembled. Many still clung to the hope of some way to return to the living and saw the work of the alchemists as a threshold that, once passed, would dash those hopes on the rocks. In his younger days, in the Forgotten Bowels of Castle Lodern, Eles stuck to a rite he performed ere he began any necromantic work – a plea to the spirits of the dead to hold him harmless for the unjust nature of their passing. If they sought vengeance by haunting some person or place, he pleaded they focus their energies on the subject or place of their demise, not on his humble workstation.
Although he had no intention of performing such a ritual this night, he couldn’t help but think back on all those lonely hours amongst the ripe corpses as he stood in the catacombs of the temple of Lady Cinereal. The Queen of Bones. Man’s Final Mistress.
Kelshar wasted away under a stark white shroud on the cold slab before him. Eles had explained that there could be great value in Kelshar’s still-potent corpse. Keetie assigned two well-trained guards to chaperone Eles to the catacombs so that he may retrieve what he could prior to the embalming process. The Inspector warned the guards that if Dargon still skulked in Venaisin, he may be seeking vengeance on the alchemist, so they needed to keep sharp. It made sense, but Eles guessed that Keetie also didn’t fully trust him yet. He wondered how long it would be before he could leave the manor unaccompanied. Would he ever? Or was this a glimpse into his future?
The air in the musty central burial chamber of Lady Cinereal left his nostrils damp. Thick, stone columns carved with images of the Lady escorting mortals to her domain supported a ceiling that dripped mildewed water in several places. The carvings showed Lady Cinereal parting a sea of hungry, fanged worms and facilitating safe passage to the horde of tortured souls behind her. The dripping water unnerved both for the noise it made and because it gave the impression that the ceiling could collapse under pressure of bay water at any time. Rusty, iron hooks protruded from the columns overhead, designed to hang a body, facilitating the draining of blood in an expeditious manner. Today, two of the hooks held aloft a pair of dim, covered lanterns that provided enough light for Eles to perform his task.
“How long is this going to take?” one of the guards asked, clearly unnerved by the place.
Good question, Eles thought as he stared at the shroud. He had never done this before, but he knew success demanded he act now.
“You’re welcome to wait above,” Eles offered.
“Get on with it,” the man replied.
Good advice, Eles thought. It was now or never. He stepped forward and drew back the shroud. Kelshar’s face had paled considerably, and her neck bulged, swollen purple and black. Eles felt the thyroid cartilage around the larynx and the muscles on either side of the neck. Tough. Leathery. He would need a bit of force. He reached into his black leather pack and retrieved his carefully packed vials and needles and laid them out before him. The premeasured packet of Dellemon’s salt had to be mixed into the red vial of Sturrblood and shaken vigorously. Next, he must pour that mixture into another clay vial that contained a separate mixture of six different ingredients Eles had pre-prepared at his new lab. While those mixed ingredients were still bubbling, he must siphon it into his needle and quickly inject it into Kelshar’s neck. With a forceful stab he jammed the needle into the neck and pierced the swollen skin. The foaming liquid rushed into the dead woman’s neck. Eles heard the guard behind him audibly grunt.
Squeamish, Eles thought. Not a good trait for a soldier.
Thud-clang.
Eles turned to find the guard twitching and shaking in the throes of death, clutching at a crossbow bolt through his neck. The other guard, who had stood sentry at the entrance to the main chamber, also lied sprawled on the floor.
Dargon Lodern stood over the body, an unsoiled long sword in hand.
Eles had no time to consider his conflicting emotions.
A noose dropped over his head and jerked tight on his neck. He reached up and got his fingers between the rope and his neck right before he got hoisted up off his feet. His legs flailed about, inches off the floor as he used all his strength to hold onto the noose. He rotated just enough to reveal Nadja leaning back with all her weight and pulling the other end of the rope, which had been tossed over one of the iron hooks that jutted out of the columns, a crude fulcrum for the makeshift winch.
“What a day,” she said with a smile.
Dargon ambled down the steps without any appreciation for the urgency of Eles’ predicament.
“Put him on the tips of his toes,” Dargon instructed.
Nadja shifted her weight so that Eles’ toes could partially support his weight. Arm strength was not Eles’ specialty, and even with the support of his toes he knew he couldn’t hold this position for long.
“Wait…” Eles croaked as he his fingers kept the rope from crushing his windpipe.
“I have. If Nadja had her way, you’d already be dead.”
“It’s true. I have no love for alchemists,” the brown-haired beauty added as she kept the rope taut.
“I heard you, Elestran. Underestimate you. Yes. I’ve been guilty of it. This time I’m going to give you the benefit of proving it.” Dargon took a step closer and looked into Eles’ eyes. “That mummery. The kiss. Explain that.”
As always, the man caught everything. Eles had depended on it.
“Another inch… please…” Eles pleaded, fully aware of the irony that they were overestimating his ability to hold his own weight.
Dargon nodded and Nadja shifted very slightly one more time, allowing the balls of Eles’ feet to press against the stone floor.
“I needed to grab her neck. It was the only way to inject The Hangman’s Triccare,” Eles sputtered, as quickly as he could.
“What is-?”
But Eles didn’t wait for him to finish. He didn’t have that luxury. “Suspension agent. Slows the body. Almost imperceptible. Please…”
Dargon moved to Kelshar and placed a finger on her neck.
“Not neck…” Eles gasped, “…chest.”
Dargon put his ear on the chest of the corpse. “Nothing,” he whispered.
Immediately, Nadja jerked back on the rope, pulling Eles aloft. Eles panicked and his legs flailed at the open air.
“Wait,” Dargon said as he lifted a finger. “I heard something. Very slow. Faint.” He motioned with his finger to lower Eles.
She relented and dropped Eles unceremoniously back down onto his feet, rattling his pounding skull.
He wasted no time pulling the noose off his neck and rubbed the now throbbing area. “The Hangman’s Triccare. Injected with this.” He held up a small sac that fit into the center of his palm. The sac was connected to a short needle that stuck straight out from his palm. “Two effects. Suspends the body, but also hardens and bloats the neck. Holds until midnight when it begins to dissipate with the pull of the moons.”
“She’s alive?” Nadja asked, stunned.
“She should be. Her body swung down at an angle. It didn’t fall far. Otherwise, her neck could’ve broken, or worse.”
“Now what?” Dargon still had a hand on Kelshar’s heart.
“Now she’s been injected with a powerful stimulant to awaken her body and allow it to take back control before she shuts down and dies.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“No.”
“But you know it works?”
“That’s what the texts say.”
Eles suspected that wasn’t the answer Dargon wanted, but the Lord of Greyarch didn’t show it. He almost never did.
“Her pulse should begin to quicken. Her heartbeat is supposed to gradually come back to speed. Her neck muscles soften.” Eles approached Kelshar’s prone body to observe. He had never seen this done before and was immensely curious.
Nadja coiled her rope as she eyed the Alchemist suspiciously. “You hope. You’re taking a lot of chances with the woman’s life.”
“Tell me my other option,” Eles shot back, annoyed. As far as he was concerned, he may have just pulled off an ingenious plot to save the woman’s life. The two of them should be kissing his feet and begging forgiveness. If it were up to them, no doubt Kelshar would be long dead.
“And how were you going to explain the woman coming back from the dead to Keetie’s men? What would you have done had we not showed up?” Nadja asked it, but Eles could see Dargon turn with interest out of the corner of his eye.
“I had three ideas. Admittedly, they were all somewhat foolhardy. But again, tell me my other option.”
Dargon smiled. Somehow, the man’s damned smile held more weight than a dozen Keetie speeches. In his youth, Eles had thought Lodern to be infallible. Now he knew better. But still, gaining the man’s respect held sway over him, with more power than he liked to admit.
Nadja took watch by the front entrance while the men monitored Kelshar. Slowly but surely Kelshar’s neck muscles contracted and changed hue from a purplish black to a light purple and reddish-brown blend. Her face was still sallow when her eyelids flickered. Eles backed up. He didn’t want to be the first face Kelshar saw when she regained consciousness.
“How strong is she going to be?” Dargon asked. He kept looking up at the entrance to the room and listening for signs of approaching feet.
“I have no idea, milord.”
Kelshar’s eyes blinked open.
Success! Eles’ chest puffed and he somehow resisted the urge to pound on it with his fists. When did an Alchemist ever have the opportunity to perform The Hangman’s Triccare?
“By the gods,” Nadja murmured, “black Magesty.”
“No. Alchemy,” Eles corrected.
Kelshar’s eyes darted around in a panic, but she appeared to be too weak to do much else.
“How are you?” Dargon asked.
Kelshar made to speak, but nothing came out save a dry wheeze. She shakily pulled herself up to sitting, with Dargon’s help.
“She’d better regain her strength, and fast,” Nadja warned. “We need to get out of here and back to Keetie’s.”
“Keetie’s?” Eles repeated, hoping he heard her wrong. “Why?”
“We’re getting Rakana,” she replied, dripping with disdain, “or did you discard her already?”
Of course he hadn’t.
He hadn’t.