Wren the Fox Witch (Europa #3: A Dark Fantasy) (10 page)

Tycho winced.

Don’t ask that yet, it’s still far too early. This is why they shouldn’t be here. They don’t know the routine. They’re giving him leverage.

Tycho held up a hand and drew Omar’s attention. “If I may. Let’s just step back from that question for a moment. Mister Bakhoum, do you have any knowledge of Koschei’s whereabouts?”

Omar focused on the dwarf. “You’re not interested in the big picture, are you?”

“Actually, I am,” Tycho said. “Koschei?”

“No.”

“And the Damascena?”

“
Nadira
. And no.”

Tycho rifled through his papers. “It says here that the captain of your ship, a Mister Ortiz, confirmed that you boarded in Varna, bound for Alexandria by way of several other ports. And none of our contacts inside Stamballa have ever reported seeing a man fitting your description in the company of Prince Radu. Therefore, I’m inclined to believe that you are what you claim to be. A traveler with no part in this war.”

Omar snorted. “Well, thank you very much, my little friend.”

“On the other hand, the fact that you claim to be immortal and that you carry a seireiken gives us two very serious reasons for concern,” Tycho said. “I’ve been to Alexandria. I am familiar with the men who carry these swords. The Sons of Osiris. Are you one of them?”

“Off and on. They have certain valuable resources, and they don’t ask questions, as long as I help them with the occasional project.”

“Such as?”

Omar sighed. “I’m sorry, but this is getting to be a bit tiresome, friend. I’m not going to tell you my life story. It’s far less interesting than you might think, and hardly any of your business.”

“The safety of Constantia is my business, Mister Bakhoum,” Tycho said. “I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

“Constantia has stood here for fifteen hundred years,” Omar said. “It has survived countless wars and sieges, famines and plagues, and more earthquakes than I care to remember. It doesn’t need you to save it.”

“Be that as it may—”

A fist pounded on the door and everyone turned to look just as a man on the other side called out, “Major Xenakis! Major! I saw them! I saw them at Saray!”

Saray!

Tycho moved his shaking hands to his lap and looked at the pale Italian. Salvator nodded. Tycho stood up. “Would you all excuse me for a moment, please?” And he walked calmly to the door.

On the other side he found a young Vlachian archer, his face flecked with soot and blood, gasping for breath. “Major, I saw them. Hundreds of them. We fought them, but there were just too many. We couldn’t stop them. We lost half our men in the first few minutes, and most of the others broke ranks and ran into the wilderness. And now they’re coming toward the city. They’re coming here.”

Tycho grabbed the man’s dirty jacket and pulled him forward and down to look him in the eyes. “
What
are they? Tell me
exactly
what you saw.”

“The dead.” The soldier trembled and covered his eyes. “The dead. Dead bodies. Corpses. Rotten and broken, black and blue and white, covered in dirt and ice. Sir, they were dead bodies, and they tore our men and horses into pieces. They were dead. They were already dead.” The man collapsed to the floor, shaking.

Tycho stepped back and let the other men tend to the archer. Salvator stared at the soldiers with a look of revulsion and confusion. Tycho swallowed and tugged his jacket down.

It’s true then. The dead have risen. And they’re coming here. It’s the end, the end of the world. God is choosing who shall stand and who shall fall.

He swallowed again, turned and walked back into the room, waved Salvator inside, and then closed the door. He sat in his seat and folded his hands together on the table. “Your Grace, Your Highness, I must report that there is another army approaching the city from the northwest. They have taken Saray and are moving this way. The rumors have been confirmed.” His voice broke and he paused to swallow again. “It is an army of corpses. The dead have risen from their graves. I’m afraid… The end of the world is upon us.”

Lady Nerissa and Prince Vlad stared at him, and he did his best to look them each in the eye and to keep his breathing slow and even.

“Oh, that?” Omar said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“That’s nothing,” the Aegyptian said. “It’s certainly not the end of the world. It’s a
strange
event. A scientific curiosity, certainly. But it’s just a confluence of local burial practices, weather conditions, and aether distribution currents.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Tycho asked. “You know about this?”

“Of course. We saw it in Vlachia.”

Tycho felt his heart begin to race. “Can you… can you stop it? Can you help us?”

“Well, I did say I might be inclined to help someone if they asked.” Omar glanced at the fox-eared girl, and then nodded slowly at Tycho. “So, maybe we can spare a little time to help you in your hour of need. Does this mean I can have my sword back now, please?”

Chapter 8. Witch

The longer Wren sat at the table and listened to these strangers babble in Hellan, the less frightened she felt, and eventually even a bit of boredom sank in. Omar looked and sounded as calm and comfortable as ever, and that was enough assurance for her, for the moment. The dwarf had been kind enough, offering her a seat, and once everyone started saying “Nadira” and “Koschei” they lost all interest in her and her ears.

Thank you, Woden. That was a kindness.

But then someone beat on the door and the dwarf stepped out and when he stepped back in everything was different. There was fear in the air, even in the eyes of the beautiful lady in her fancy green dress and the tall scowling man in his black and red uniform. And then, just as she was losing patience with not being able to understand what was being said, she realized that Omar was speaking in Rus again.

“…to include my young friend in the conversation,” he said. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Wren Olgasdottir of Denveller, my apprentice and student of natural philosophy and metaphysics.”

Every eye was once again on her. Wren nodded to the lady in green. “Hello. It’s very nice to meet you.”

The lady smiled.

“Wren,” Omar continued, “I’d like you to meet Lady Nerissa, the Duchess of Constantia, and her ally in arms Prince Vlad IV of Vlachia. And these two gentlemen are their intelligence officers, Major Tycho Xenakis, from Hellas, and Signore Salvator Fabris, from Italia.”

“Hello.” She nodded at them.

“It would seem, my dear, that these good people have just now learned about the small matter of the walking corpses, which have appeared as close as eighty miles away from where we are sitting right now. And being the most gracious and humble fellow that I am, I have agreed to help them deal with the problem.”

Wren looked at him. “You have? What about Alexandria?”

“We’ll get there soon enough. But the Duchess and the Prince have extended their considerable hospitality to us in exchange for our help, and I think this is a fine opportunity to rest and study before we continue on our way.” He leaned closer to her and said, in Yslander, “Better to have them as allies than as jailers. And more importantly, it was the only way to get them to agree to return my seireiken.”

“Ah.” She nodded, rubbing her thumb against the ring on her right hand, grateful that no one had thought to take her gloves and steal the bit of sun-steel on her finger. The ring felt warm against her skin. “All right. Then where do we begin?”

“With a question,” Omar said, turning to their captors-turned-hosts. “Prince Vlad, I see you too wear a seireiken. I’ll skip over the very salient question of
how
you came to possess it and simply ask,
when
did you receive it?”

“Ten months ago,” Vlad said. “It was a gift from Lady Nerissa, brought by these two men here.” He indicated Tycho and Salvator.

“Ten months.” Omar frowned. “No, from what we heard, this business of the corpses only started this winter. So that’s probably not a factor. I do need to learn more about this area, though. It’s colder here, which is important when dealing with aether. Do you have any local experts in aether studies? Any of your Constantian priests, or perhaps even one of the Sons of Osiris here in the city? I’m sure there’s at least one Osirian in Stamballa advising the Eranians, but I doubt we’ll be able to speak to him any time soon.”

“No,” said Lady Nerissa. “I do not have an Osirian in my court, nor would I wish to. I have met them before, and found them unpleasant.”

“How tactful,” Omar said with a genuine smile. “Well, if there is no one else, then I—”

“There is someone else,” Prince Vlad said. “Someone here who knows about mists and the dead.”

Wren saw the dwarf close his eyes and rub his temples as he shook his head.

“We have Koschei’s sainted mother,” the prince said.

Omar paused, glanced at Wren, and then looked back at Vlad. “Here? In the city? Yaga is here now?”

“Yes.”

Wren touched Omar’s arm and said, “This is the immortal woman from Rus that you mentioned before?”

Omar nodded.

“The one you slept with?”

He winced and nodded again.

“You didn’t mention how you left things with her, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. And no, I didn’t leave on the best of terms.” Omar dragged his thumb down the edge of his unshaven jaw. “But we do need to speak to her. She’s had five hundred years to learn how aether behaves in a cold climate. We need that knowledge.”

Wren nodded. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Omar’s eyes lit up and he sat up a bit straighter as he said in a loud, clear voice, “My apprentice, I have a task for you.”

Wren looked at him. “Oh no, no no no. Me? Why me? Not me. You have a history with her, you should be the one.”

“No, my history with her would only get in the way. Besides, I suspect that I have many more important discussions to hold with these fine people.” Omar nodded at the duchess and prince. “So if you could interview the woman in question for me, it would be most helpful. Just ask about the corpses, ghosts, aether, the usual. Anything that seems relevant. It should be easy, you’ll have so much in common. She’s a witch, you’re a witch.”

“I am a vala of Ysland!” Wren said more loudly than she had intended. She paused and said, more quietly, “I’m not a
witch
.”

“I know, I understand how you feel, but here in this country, for all intents and purposes, you are a witch. You’re also the ideal person to speak to her for me.” Omar turned to the dwarf. “Major, would you be so kind as to escort my apprentice to see Yaga?”

“Show some respect,” Vlad muttered. “Do not call the sainted mother by her name. Or if you must, at least call her Baba Yaga.”

There was a brief discussion in Hellan and then the dwarf stood up and gestured to the door. Wren stood, pulled her scarf up over her head, and followed the major out into the larger audience chamber. A few waiting petitioners glanced up, and then turned back to their papers and ignored the pair walking down the corridor.

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” she asked. She glanced back at the closed doors of the room with a cold, sinking feeling that she might not see Omar again, that she was leaving her only anchor, guide, and protector behind her.

“Call me Tycho,” he said. “Would you believe, I didn’t even have a surname until this year?”

“A what?” Wren rubbed her right wrist where her sling should have been, and felt the lightness of her belt where her stag horn knife and pouch of sling-stones should have been.

But I still have the ring. I still have the aether, only, it’s midday and the sun is warm and the aether is thin. If there’s trouble…

“When I was promoted, I needed a surname,” Tycho said. “They’re not common where I come from, in Sparta. Then again, dwarfs aren’t common in Sparta either. So I chose Xenakis. It still feels strange to hear it. So you can just call me Tycho.”

“Oh. All right.” Wren passed through the light falling from one of the tall stained windows and glanced down at her skirts. She could see the specks of dirt and blood clearly against the faded black of her clothes. “Could I wash up before I meet with this woman? We’ve been traveling for weeks now and I haven’t really changed or bathed since… a while.”

“Absolutely. Please, follow me.” Tycho turned and led her through several doors, down corridors and across empty rooms until they came to a carpeted corridor. Every chamber had gleaming white walls hung with dark paintings of people lounging in gardens or being lashed by demons, and every window was framed with dark green curtains hung from golden rods, and every corner of the ceilings were armored in sculpted wooden panels, some covered in thin grooves and some crafted to look like leaves and berries. Wren tried to see all the details at once as she hurried after her guide.

He paused in front of a closed door. “This is one of the rooms kept for the Duchess’s niece, Daphne. But she was sent back to Athens with the rest of the family just before the siege began.”

Tycho opened the door and Wren stepped inside. It was a small bedroom, and everything was covered in dusty white sheets. The bed, the dresser, the small table, and the chairs all looked like snowy little hills.

“Here.” Tycho opened a tall cabinet and gestured to the clothing hanging on the rod. “Feel free to wear anything you like. Daphne won’t mind. She’s not the minding sort. And the wash room is right back here. I’ll just wait outside for you.” He stepped back out into the hall and closed the door.

Wren glanced at the dozen or so dresses in the cabinet and then went to the wash room where she found a porcelain bath tub and a porcelain bowl on a wooden table. Above each basin were a pair of small hand-pumps, and after a moment’s experimentation she figured out how to make the left one produce lukewarm water and to make the right one produce freezing cold water. She stripped off her black jacket and black sweater and black blouse and black skirts and socks and stood over the bowl of warm water for several minutes scrubbing her face and arms and chest. She even soaked her hair and when she was finished the water in bowl was a curious blend of gray and brown, with many small brown things floating in it.