The Enterprise of Death (11 page)

Awa grew a goat foot. The necromancer told her it was prideful and stupid and that ensured her decision; after she strained herself out of the stewpot and picked the pieces out of the pools of vomit surrounding the bear she buried what remained of her left foot with Omorose. She ground the hoof into a powder after promising the creature’s spirit that she would eat soft summer grass a few times a year, and as she suspected the new foot grew in quickly, although it did take some getting used to.

As soon as the weather began to turn she broke down the old shelter she had made with Halim and her mistress and moved it farther down the glacier, using Omorose’s cairn as one wall of the new hut. By the time the next winter arrived she had filled in all the chinks and even had a crude fireplace, but not a week into the snows she admitted defeat and trudged miserably back to winter in the necromancer’s hut—a fireplace was worse than worthless without wood, and her tutor was not sharing. He welcomed her with a grin and a hot cup of wormwood; ever since the scream he had been nothing but cordial to his pupil.

Years passed atop the world, and as Awa grew she passed through many hells. Self-loathing and self-pity jostled each other for dominion but she fought them both, and in the absence of other company she found herself talking quite a bit with the bandit
chief. The necromancer would not allow idle chatter, and so their conversations took place as they sparred. Awa had long since stopped blaming the man for her situation, except when she was angry with him.

“I’m jealous of you,” Awa told him as her sword whipped toward his skull.

“Oh?” The echo of metal tolled across the high places as he parried her.

“Foraging down the mountain.” Awa ducked, his sword grazing her sweaty scalp. “With the bonemen.”

“Well, it—” Before he could finish she was on him again, and it was not until she had cracked his shoulder blade and then mixed up the powdered-bone-and-water mortar to fix it that he went on. “Well, it is a change of—”

“What’s this, what’s this?” The necromancer had crept up behind her, his concubine on one arm. “Lollygagging, by the look of it. I trust you to manage yourself and yet here you sit, gossiping away.”

“I hurt his arm.” Awa tried to relax her tight jaw but the rest of her body was not as adept a liar as her tongue. “We were only talking about parrying while I repaired it, not—”

“Hurt him, did you? I suppose that means you’ve learned all you can from the old boy, eh?” The concubine whispered in his ear and the necromancer smiled. Awa knew what was coming next, she knew him well enough to see that, and the best thing would be to deny him the satisfaction of a response. She knew that, but it was so unfair, it was so petty and cruel, it was so—

The shoulder blade she was daubing stayed gripped between her fingers but the rest of the bandit chief fell apart on the stone, his skull bouncing in the dirt to settle in front of the necromancer. Awa ground her teeth and felt her fury slowly begin to cool. She had expected that, but then her tutor put his bare foot on top of the skull and began lifting his other leg, clearly intent on
balancing atop the skull while his rotten little girlfriend egged him on.

“Stop it!” Awa shouted. “Please!”

“Oh.” The necromancer hopped off the skull, then hooked his foot under the jaw and adroitly kicked it up into the air, catching it in one hand. Halim’s tongue remained on the ground, coated in dust. “What’s the matter, he can’t feel anything now.”

“You could break him.” Awa felt her fingernails, gnawed to the quick though they were, digging into her palms. “You pull those tricks and his skull lands on a rock, and then what? He’s gone forever.”

“And what a tragedy that would be.” The necromancer rolled his eyes.

“I want to play with him,” said the concubine, the little cords of brown musculature remaining on her face pulling up into a smile. “Don’t you? We could teach her how to get some friction off the bones.”

“Tut-tut,” said the necromancer, leaning down to pick up the dirty tongue. “We’ll need this, then, though I imagine Awa won’t —”

Awa did not. She was already halfway across the glacier, all her recent scabs peeling back as her feet kicked up the ice. She did not cry, and had not in some time, though on occasions like this she dearly wanted to. That night she heard them carrying on for hours, personal sounds made public on the wind, but even after they quieted she could not sleep, tossing in the warm summer night on her pallet of dried boughs and old hide. Few things make one more desperate than insomnia, and when she could bear it no longer Awa began removing the stones from the far wall of her hut.

The draft of cool air that wafted out was reward enough, and she lay down, her back to the small cavern she had opened. She had raised and put down dozens and dozens of the bonemen at
her tutor’s instruction but never had she done so unbidden. The thought had lived with her since the day her mistress had died, of course, but Awa feared becoming like the necromancer even more than she feared the man himself. She had almost done it, she had almost done what she had promised herself she would never do, but then they started up again at the necromancer’s hut, the she-cat yowls of the concubine digging into Awa’s once-soft eyes and finally drawing forth the tears.

“Hold me, girl,” said Awa, and Omorose crawled out of her grave, wrapping her frigid limbs around her former slave.

Awa awoke later than usual and immediately sent Omorose back into her cairn, walling up the grave after her too quickly to do it properly. Awa felt sick, and when she peered through the last gap in the wall and commanded Omorose to die again the guilt brought more tears and snotty vomit. Awa paced the edge of the cliff all day, ranting at herself, and only when the sun set did she realize the necromancer had not come for her, nor had his bonemen. She also remembered she had not eaten since the previous lunch, and it relieved her somewhat to know the sickness she felt inside her might in some part be the result of her famished stomach. Had she eaten a proper dinner she never would have done that.

But of course she would have, and of course she did it again before a week was out. The necromancer kept the bandit chief’s skull balanced in the bear’s mouth, baiting her to ask for him back, but she simply ate in silence, answered his questions with a flat directness, and returned to her hut with that peculiar excitement, that bizarre, alien illness working on her mind and stomach. Awa had forgotten what it felt like to be happy, and the return of the sensation confused and worried her.

The glacier had done what it could, and so Omorose retained a good deal of her beauty. Her eyes were deep and still as the blackest wells, and Awa’s thirst to drink from them grew and
grew throughout the sultry days. Best of all was the realization that Awa had prevented the necromancer from plucking a single hair from Omorose, let alone her tongue, and so after only a few nights Awa worked up the nerve to actually talk to her mistress instead of leaving her mute.

“You can speak?” Awa asked her as Omorose settled in behind her, those marble-smooth and cold arms a marvelous weight on Awa’s side and shoulder.

“Yash,” Omorose said, her voice muffled. Awa led her mistress outside to inspect her properly, something she had not dared do before lest the necromancer see her. The ice crystals in Omorose’s long hair rendered her ropey, snarled locks into an extension of the stars set in the black firmament blazing down on them, and Awa had Omorose open her mouth. There was the problem, a thick mold clogging the poor girl’s mouth. After thoroughly cleaning her mistress’s palate with her shaking fingers, Awa quickly took her back inside.

“Hold me, Omorose,” Awa whispered, and Omorose did. After a deliciously long pause, Awa asked, “Did you miss me?”

“Of course,” said Omorose, and with ever-softening fingers she stroked the tears from Awa’s cheeks. “I’ve been waiting for you. Why did you make me wait so long?”

“I was scared,” said Awa.

Omorose laid her hands on Awa’s back and sighed. “So was I. I was worried you wouldn’t come, after how I’d treated you. I was worried you would think I meant those mean things I said, I worried …”

“No!” Awa rolled over to face Omorose in the darkness, her nostrils far too deadened to appreciate the strength of her mistress’s aroma. “I knew, I mean, I thought … I hoped …”

“I was confused,” Omorose said, her hands finding Awa’s in the darkness. “I was confused and scared, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I’m sorry, Awa, I’m so, so sorry!”

These words that Awa had longed for, had needed so badly, melted her like fat on a fire into a spluttering, sobbing mess as she clung to her mistress. Some wicked part of Awa had always maintained that Omorose did not care about her, did not care about anyone but herself, and this secret self had whispered its lies to Awa even after Omorose’s death, had told her to forget the witty, sarcastic mistress with hair dark as the heart of a storm and eyes bright as lightning. Awa’s love was vindicated, and then she realized Omorose had said her name for the first time. Rather than bringing on more sobs, this gave Awa a terrible case of the giggles, and soon Omorose was laughing along with her, and for one night everything that had befallen Awa seemed a fair price for what she had gained.

“Rare night,” the necromancer said a week later, after they finished supper.

“Oh?” Awa was sure he suspected something and so tarried before returning to their hut.

“Yes indeed.” The necromancer glanced at the cauldron and Awa quickly fetched him his tea, the sweet anise smell reminding her of Omorose. “The heavens will spill fire down on our lowly world, or so the peasants will fear. Those bastard charlatans will be at their devices, of course, plotting their charts and making up their reasons. Claptrap!”

“Oh?”

“But pretty claptrap,” the necromancer said, and Awa thought he cast her a strange glance. “Fancy a little stargazing with your old master? I can point out the few alignments that matter to us.”

“Of course,” Awa said too quickly, wondering how much her face showed. “That would be, ah, yes please.”

The necromancer eyed her carefully. “Or maybe I’ll sketch them here, and have you look alone, and then tomorrow we can go together and see if you’ve done your work.”

“Yes!” Awa realized she had almost shouted, and blushed. “If that’s alright, I like trying first. The spirits are hard to read up there, so it’s a challenge. Fun.”

“Fun,” the necromancer repeated, and retrieved his book. Using the long quill taken from some strange bird with an eye hidden in the feathers, he began sketching several constellations on that first blank page. He used no ink but as the quill touched the book sparkling red stars appeared, and after Awa had nodded at each one he closed the tome. She knew that same page would be blank the next time he opened it, just as it always was.

Setting down his book he raised his palm into the air. The bear towering over him opened its mouth and the bandit chief’s skull rolled free and landed in her tutor’s hand. He placed it on the table and sent it spinning across the table to Awa, who caught it easily. “Suppose you can have that old layabout back.”

“Thank you,” said Awa, a little guilty for not feeling more excited about it. “Can I go now?”

“Aren’t you going to call him up?” asked the necromancer, blowing on his drink and taking a sip. “I’m rather curious to see if you’re able.”

“Oh?” Awa blinked. She had already raised dozens of skeletons at his behest, and grew ever more paranoid at his odd behavior. “His bones are where you left them, so why don’t I tomorrow?”

“Alright,” said the necromancer, “he’s your friend. Give him back to me, then.”

Walking around the table, she saw him eyeing her spirit and wondered as she always did what he saw there. For Awa the spirits were but scraps of shadow, big ones for the necromancer and the bandit chief, little ones for most of the bonemen, but who knew what he could read in a spirit. She would have to see how big Omorose’s spirit was; she had never really looked. Then Awa caught herself, horrified to be thinking of her mistress with his
gaze upon her, and forced herself to wonder about fire from the sky, which made her think of lightning, which made her think of the night they arrived, which made her think of—

“Well?” He was looking up at her, and Awa realized he had already taken the skull from her hands.

“Oh.” Awa swallowed, half expecting him to seize her arm and ruin her life again. “I’m feeling odd, may I go?”