Dead Reign (6 page)

Death regarded him with interest, as if he were a talking dog or something equally improbable. “I believe I told you not to ring the bell without sufficient cause. Or are you so enamored of my father’s—of
my
—realm that you wish to rush to the underworld?”

He is new.
Ayres smiled. In his younger days, that smile had been enough to send street toughs fleeing in terror for their souls. His vigor had been sapped by years of confinement and illness, but he was beginning to feel a bit of his old power and certitude return. “I have tasted death, my lord, and am content to push that plate away for now. No, I have information for you. But I wish to set the terms of our bargain. You said you would grant me a boon or two, and allow me into your good graces. I wonder if you might care to provide me with a more
formal
offer.”

Death laughed. He sat on Booth’s coffin again, turned to the lifeless mummy, and said, “Do you believe this? The lapdog tries to bargain! Everyone tries to bargain eventually. It’s all part of the grieving process. But I don’t do bargains.”

“The average grieving man has little to offer. But I can tell you where to find Death’s terrible sword.”

Death twisted a ring on one of his fingers. The gem flashed with an inner emerald light. “Well. That would be worth a bit of parley. I suppose, if you did have such information, I might be willing to make an arrangement. What would you like? Jewels? Your youth? Some of those dark-haired young women I mentioned?”

“No, thank you, my lord. I wish only to be the greatest necromancer who has ever lived.” It was true. Ayres had never wished for anything else.

Death yawned. “May as well wish to be the greatest dogcatcher that ever lived. The greatest garbageman. It’s ambition, I suppose, but of a puny sort.”

“I want direct power. I don’t want to…mess about with all this.” Ayres gestured at the chalk lines on the floor. “I want the ability granted to your servants in the underworld—to call the dead, and bind them, and raise corpses to do my bidding. I wish to wield this power directly. Without making sacrifices, without all the ritual.”

“Ahhh,” Death said. “Slightly more ambitious. If you can tell me where to find my lost family heirloom, I will agree to grant you this, on my honor.”

Ayres nodded. He didn’t ask for assurances. The gods could be treacherous, but they were also trustworthy in their way, and he did not doubt Death would do as he said. Fire burned, rain fell, wind blew, and gods honored their promises. It was ever thus. “Your sword is in the hands of Marla Mason, chief sorcerer of the city of Felport. The sword appears in the guise of a dagger, and has been passed from hand to hand over the generations, from one ruler of Felport to another.”

“Truly?” The Walking Death rose. “In this very city? This is fate. Unless it’s falsehood. It goes without saying, if this proves untrue, I will not just strip you of your powers, but of your flesh. Death will be a relief denied you. If you’re even mistaken, with no intent to deceive, I will not be merciful, and will still hold you accountable for wasting my time.”

“You have nothing but time, my lord,” Ayres said. Death had promised him his reward, and Ayres no longer needed to bow and scrape. It was clear Death wanted the dagger more than he admitted. “I believe you would hold me accountable for sowing false
hope.
” Death narrowed his eyes, and the dark aura around him blackened. Ayres bowed again, lower this time. No need to push it. “Of course, I understand the sword is a mere bauble of no real value, and that you only wish to acquire it for sentimental reasons. Nevertheless, I am pleased my information, meager as it may be, has some value to you. I’m sure you’ll find it in Marla Mason’s possession.”

Death shook his head. “You’ve got steel in your back and fire in your belly, old man, I’ll grant you that. Fine. You have your powers. If your information proves accurate, I’ll even let you keep them. This Marla Mason. Would you say she’s a reasonable woman? Willing to make a deal if it’s in her best interests?”

“She’s as stubborn as a constipated mule, actually. But I’m sure you can be very persuasive.”

Death shrugged. “Mortals are grass. She’ll bend or be mown down. Well? Are you going to raise this mummy or not?”

“Indeed.” Ayres wasn’t sure what to do—he didn’t feel any rush of power, didn’t feel any different at all.

“Simply speak the words, make your command,” Death said. “The dead will answer you.”

“Ah.” Ayres cleared his throat. “Dead man, I bid you to rise.”

The coffin began to shake. The withered mummy inside moved, its motions as alien and precise as those of a stick insect. It sat up, braced itself on the edges of the coffin, and climbed out, standing on unsteady, shriveled feet.

“Beautiful,” Ayres murmured.

“Beautiful tyrant,” the mummy said, voice a croak at first, but as it continued to speak, the tone became smoother, and took on a surprising resonance. “Fiend angelical. Dove-feathered raven.” It—he—shook his head, and bits of dried substance flaked from his neck, settling into the folds of his old black suit. “Was there ever a book containing such fair matter, so vilely bound?”

Death grinned. “That’s nice. ‘Wake not a sleeping wolf. To wake a wolf is as bad as to smell a fox.’”

The mummy turned its head, slowly, and regarded the young god. “
Henry the Fourth,
Act one, Scene two,” the mummy said.

Ayres felt his newfound certainty begin to shift. “Why does this thing speak?”

The mummy regarded him. “I am no thing, sir.” The voice was still smooth, not emerging from the body’s fleshless windpipe, but through magic. The accent was decidedly Southern. “I am John Wilkes Booth, a patriot and actor of some renown.”

“What is this?” Ayres had caused the dead to speak before, but they always whispered, or shrieked; they did not speak as if they were alive, and this strange prodigy made him shudder.

Death laughed. “You asked to be the greatest necromancer who ever lived. I conferred those powers on you. They’re more potent than the weak magic you once possessed. When you raise the dead now, if you’re not careful, you’ll jerk their spirits back into their bodies. As you did with this one. Farewell, Ayres. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

“Wait—” Ayres said, but Death was gone, off into shadow. Ayres cursed and turned back to the spirit he’d unwittingly called up. “You. I’ve given you life so that you might serve me.”

“I serve my country,” Booth said, “and my family, and my art, and my God. I do not see why I should serve you.”

“Would you rather return to…wherever you were before?”

“I have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound,” Booth said thoughtfully. “But the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country…” He shook his head. “I would not like to return there, no, sir.”

“Stop quoting Shakespeare.” Ayres was suddenly tired and more than a little cranky. “I don’t even know much Shakespeare, and I can tell you’re quoting it.”

“The bard’s words are silver and gold, sir,” Booth said. “You may call me Mr. Booth, or John, if you prefer. How may I address you?”

“Ayres. Or Master.”

“I call no man master, Ayres. But treat me as a gentleman, and I’ll extend you the same courtesy.”

“This is just
grand.
” Ayres started to turn. He stopped. “You precede me from the room. I know what happens to people who put their backs to you.”

“Only tyrants need fear me.” Booth stepped past Ayres, toward the door, then paused. “I thank you for retrieving me from…that place. But my gratitude will allow your discourtesy only so much latitude, sir.” He left the room.

Booth had never even glanced at the dead man in the chalk design, Ayres noticed. Being dead must alter one’s priorities.
I must be more careful when I raise the next one.
Ayres wanted a servant, not a mummified roommate. Especially not a notorious racist assassin with delusions of grandeur and a tendency to spout Shakespeare without provocation. Still, a dead man with a proven willingness to shoot people in the back of the head could have his uses, Ayres supposed. He’d keep the mummy around for a while and see what opportunities presented themselves.

“I know I say you take the warrior ascetic thing too far sometimes, Marla,” Rondeau said, strolling down the wide marble-floored hallway on their way out of the mansion. “But don’t you think hiring a manservant is a bit of an overcompensation?”

“Shut up,” Marla muttered, keenly aware of the valet walking behind her. She didn’t like it when people walked behind her—years as a freelance mercenary made watching her back second nature—but Pelham wouldn’t walk alongside like an equal. Marla could have ordered him to walk in front of them, she supposed, but while she was no stranger to telling people what to do, telling a
servant
what to do was a weirdly distasteful idea. “He’s just coming along to help plan the Founders’ Ball, then I’ll send him back.”

“Whatever you say, Lady Marla,” Rondeau said. “But your kind will be first against the wall when the revolution comes.”

Pelham smoothly swooped around them to open the front door, and when they exited onto the front steps, he hurried down to open the back door of the Bentley, bowing as he did.

“I ride up front, Pelham,” Marla said. “You can have the back.”

“I…if madam insists…” He sounded doubtful.

Marla sighed. “Don’t call me ‘madam.’”

“Yeah,” Rondeau said. “A madam is somebody who runs a whorehouse. You have to watch out for the connotations.”

Pelham blinked like a rabbit on his first trip out of the burrow. “Would you prefer…mistress?”

Rondeau snorted. Marla glared at him. “Connotations again,” Rondeau said.

“Ah,” Pelham said, clearly at a loss. “Then…ma’am?”

“How about just ‘Ms. Mason,’” Marla said. She figured trying to get him to say “Marla” would be a lost cause.

“Of course.” Pelham opened the passenger door for her.

“I can open my own car door.” Pelham pretended convincingly not to hear her. She got in, and he closed the door, then climbed in back.

Rondeau got in the driver’s seat, glanced in the rearview, and said, “Buckle up there, Pelly. If we get in a wreck and you go flying into the back of Marla’s head, she’d never forgive me.”

“Buckle?” Pelham said faintly. Marla turned around in her seat, frowning, and watched as he began fumbling with the seat belt straps, finally getting them latched. “I am secure,” Pelham said formally.

“This is going to be fun,” Rondeau said. “Is he going to sleep on a little cot next to your bed?”

“Shut up,” Marla said again, though without much heat. Rondeau was going to give her hell about this, no matter what she did. She couldn’t blame him. She’d do the same if their positions were reversed.

Apparently satisfied with the level of mockery for now, Rondeau started the car, and the stereo blared to life, rap music pounding out of the speakers. Marla liked this music better than the stuff Rondeau played at his nightclub, but only just. Pelham made a noise of horror from the backseat, and when Marla looked over her shoulder, he was pressing his palms against his ears. Rondeau must have noticed, because he turned the music down to a tolerable level. “Sorry about that, Pelly,” he said. “That’s just how we roll around here.” He drove down the driveway and waited for the front gate to open. “So, this Founders’ Ball, do I get invited to that?” Rondeau said.

“I guess, if you don’t piss me off too much,” Marla said.

“How about Pelly here? Will he go, to carry the train on your evening gown?”

“What did I just say about not pissing me off?”

“Comment retracted.” Rondeau drove through the open gate. Glancing in his mirror, he frowned. “Hey, Marla,” he said, voice low. “Pelly’s back there all turned around in his seat. He’s practically got his nose pressed against the back window, like a sad little kid in a movie.”

“It’s probably just sinking in that he has to work for me now.” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Just think of him as an employee, not a valet or manservant, wash all that upper-class/lower-class crap out of her head—she had money, he needed money, he’d do some work for her. That was it. It was always nice to have another useful pair of hands. And she’d be able to quit worrying about the Founders’ Ball, which was nice.

As they approached the bridge that spanned the Balsamo River, Pelham said, “I’ve seen that bridge from my window, but never crossed it. Thank you for this opportunity, Ms. Mason.”

“What?” She turned around.

His eyes widened. “Apologies if I spoke out of turn. I noticed that you allowed your driver to take a familiar tone, and thought such a mode of address might please you, but I will be more respectful in the future.”

“Her driver?” Rondeau said.

“No, I don’t care that you talked,” Marla said. “It’s what you said. You’ve never crossed this bridge before? What, you only ever took the east bridge? This one’s closer to the estate, though.”

“I have never crossed any bridge, Ms. Mason,” Pelham said apologetically. “I am not well traveled.”

Marla closed her eyes for a moment. “Tell me, just how poorly traveled are you?”

“I have never left the grounds of the estate before, Ms. Mason. I never had cause to do so.”

Marla faced forward, sank into her seat, and moaned.

“This is your first time outside the walls?” Rondeau said. “Oh, Pelly. What time does your shift end? You’ve got a lot of life’s little pleasures to sample, my friend, and your tour guide’s name is Rondeau.”

“I do not yet know my schedule,” Pelham said. “But I appreciate your willingness to allow me to join your society.”

“Phone,” Marla said, and Rondeau passed her his cell. She snapped off the rap music, then called the Chamberlain, and shouted sufficiently enough that she had to talk to only three underlings before the lady herself answered.

“Is there a problem, Marla?”

“This guy Pelham has never left your
house
!” Marla shouted. “What are you trying to do to me here? What, I’m supposed to teach him about public restrooms and how to use the bus and go to the grocery store?”

“He has left the house,” the Chamberlain said calmly. “He’s been all over the grounds. As for teaching him things, Pelham has an excellent theoretical grounding in all the tasks a valet might be expected to do. He knows how to deal with shopkeepers and tradesmen, fear not. I believe some of the household staff did training exercises with him, starting from the time he was very young.”