SKULL ARGENT
(a Birthright Lord High Executioner Story: 6)
by Dru Pagliassotti

"Look at them as they walk among you -- evil!  Evil, tainted men, so hideous in the eyes of the gods that they shall find no road to the Realm of the Gods, they shall find no respite in death, nay, they shall walk the earth from end to end, wailing in pain -- for they have made dark pacts and carry out black deeds and no man should look upon them without feeling fear and hatred!"

Corbin thrust the hot iron into the dousing bucket, letting loose a hissing billow of steam, and looked over his shoulder to see who the "them" was that Galen Celtchar was referring to.  For the last ten minutes, he'd been the sole focus of the itinerant preacher's ire, but apparently someone else had come to share his infamy.

The crowd was dispersing as the constables escorted the criminals back to prison, and the circle around the crimson-robed preacher was gradually thinning.  The preacher's quivering finger pointed at a slight figure wrapped in a heavy fur-lined lambswool cloak, huddled atop a pale horse.  Corbin pursed his lips in a silent whistle, pulling off his leather gloves.  Not even the archduke had bothered to come out in this cold, blustery day, just to see a few criminals flogged and branded; it was a rare event indeed for his ailing mage to step outdoors during the winter.

Daved Gereint turned chilly grey eyes on the roadside preacher.  Celtchar, already a tall man, straightened even more, meeting the mage's gaze with no trace of apprehension.  On the contrary, the preacher's narrow-planed, hawklike face shone with the intensity of his righteous indignation.

"The executioner wears his evil on the outside, for all to see, but the mage wears his evil on the inside, where it eats him away, yea, for evil shall corrupt and evil shall destroy and evil shall bring these men woe and horror for the rest of their lives!"

Corbin tucked his gloves into his belt.  Celtchar's words had made him start, the first time the preacher had decided to stand beneath his gallows and harangue the crowd, but after three weeks, he'd grown accustomed to it.  It was, apparently, only his profession that the preacher was inveighing against.  He'd complained to Captain Bracken, but there'd been little the guard could do as long as the man broke no laws.

Gereint, on the other hand, was not as resigned to the preacher's legal right to public prayer.

"Leave this square, priest, or --" the mage coughed slightly, bringing a bloodstained silk handkerchief to his lips, "I'll have you arrested for slander and treason."

"Yea, so the wicked shall persecute the righteous --"

Gereint lifted the hand that wasn't clutching his handkerchief, and Celtchar swiftly made a sign to ward off evil.

"Come," he said to his followers.  "We should leave before this man's shadow-tainted magic can wear away at the defenses of the pure-hearted."

Gereint's face twisted in anger, and Corbin tensed -- but then Celtchar turned and strode off, head high.  Gereint glared at his back, then broke down in a coughing fit, doubling over in his saddle.  A few people hesitated as they walked past, and then hurried on, pretending not to notice.

Corbin also averted his gaze.  He pulled the brand out of its dousing water and laid it aside with the rest of his tools.  One repeat offender being ushered back to prison would wear a thief's T seared into his right cheek for the rest of his life.

"Rook."

He turned and saw Gereint standing at the foot of the gallows stairs.  Corbin walked down the thirty-four steps to the ground and bowed respectfully.  Several feet away, Gereint's horse shifted restlessly, disturbed by the scent of burnt flesh and spilled blood that clung to Corbin's uniform.

"Lord magus?"

"The preacher -- what's his name?"

"Celtchar, sir."

"What do you know of him?"

"He showed up three weeks ago and began to preach in the public squares.  I think he's affiliated with the temple of Ruornil -- but if he is, it's a loose affiliation.  The priests don't like his doctrine, and nobody knows where he comes from."

A strange expression crossed Gereint's face, and he looked over his shoulder, as though to catch one last glance of the preacher.

"I've heard that --"  he coughed and turned back to Corbin.  "-- that the temples have complained that he teaches heresies."

"I don't know about that.  He doesn't approve of the death sentence or of killing in any form.  I've heard him say that people can overcome death if their faith in the gods and the land is strong enough.  They say his followers practice strange rites -- washing in the ocean, burning herbs, praying late at night -- I understand six or seven townspeople follow him now, and others invite him to their houses to hear him preach."

"Fools."  Gereint looked sour, wiping blood from his lips.  "There's no way to defeat death.  The dead may walk--"  he coughed again, hacking until he wheezed, then gasped for breath.  He didn't pursue the thought.  He didn't have to.  Corbin knew.  "Does he take their money?"

"Yes.  And their food, and he sleeps in their houses."  Corbin didn't bother hiding his disapproval.  "I suppose that as long as none of his followers dies, he'll spend a pleasant winter doing nothing, and then move on to the next town when it warms up again."  He looked curiously at the mage.  "If you could prove that he's a fraud, I could arrange his arrest."

Gereint gave a short, harsh laugh.

"You can't convict a priest of fraud, Rook.  Religious men make claims about faith, not reality."  The mage's smile was twisted and humorless.  "Even if --" he paused to cough, "-- even if one of his followers died and didn't come back, that would prove nothing.  All he'd need to say is that the man lacked conviction."

"Yes, sir."  Corbin shifted, feeling the cold wind bite through his uniform.

"I'm on my way to the palace.  The Champion and Swordmaster have agreed to permit an autopsy.  They aren't happy about it, but they've finally realized it's that or send to the Imperial City for a priest of Avanalae, and nobody could get here before summer."

Corbin waited silently, knowing what would come next.

"When you're done here," Gereint glanced with distaste at the gallows, "come up to Seaharrow.  The count's in the smokehouse, and the archduke will expect your report by sundown."

"Yes, my lord," Corbin said.  Sundown was in four hours.  "With your permission?"

Gereint nodded, and Corbin climbed back to the gallows to finish putting away his tools.

***

The executioner leaned against the coffin, his breath white in the cold, working at the nails with a prybar.  The smokehouse door stood open, letting in the dwindling evening light, and a lantern hung over the table.

At last, the final nail gave way with a shriek of metal against wood, and Corbin shoved the coffin lid off with a clatter.

Count Kracauer had been dead three weeks.  His muscles had softened and sagged so much that his face had lost its distinctiveness, becoming everyman in death.  Still, the early winter cold had preserved more of the body than Corbin had expected. 

Someone had dressed the count in his finest clothes, now mottled and stained by the fluids that had oozed out of him.  If people knew more about what happened to bodies after death, Corbin thought to himself, they wouldn't bother dressing them so well.  He opened his flat wooden case and found a thin, sharp knife.  Just before setting blade to fabric, he hesitated.  The doublet alone was worth a year of his salary, even stained as it was.

Then, with a sigh, he ripped the garment from neck to codpiece.

***

"By Haelyn," choked Angus, pulling back from Corbin and throwing a hand over his nose.  "Don't you dare come in here!"

"I have to," Corbin growled, as disgusted as the palace doorkeeper and considerably closer to the source of the stench.  "The archduke is expecting my report."

"No -- never.  I forbid it.  Go around back."  The doorkeeper gestured, still holding his nose.  "By the stables.  I'll have someone bring out water and tell his grace that you're back."

The two boys who carried out the copper kettle dropped it a yard away from the executioner, eyes wide as they stared at the foul stains that glistened on Corbin's uniform.  The executioner glared at them, in no mood for foolishness, and they hurried off.  Working as swiftly as he could, he yanked off his doublet and shirt, shivering as steam rose from the heated water and dissipated into the cold night.  In record time he'd sluiced the worst of the mess from his hands, chest, and face, and thrown the garments into the water to soak.  Wrapping a coarse horse blanket around himself, he hurried into the kitchen to hunker by the fire, teeth chattering.

***

"You found something," Archduke Aeric stated as his executioner saluted and knelt, still shivering in his damp uniform.  Corbin nodded as he rose.  Cold water was slowly pooling in his boots, and a fifteen-minute soak had hardly been enough to get the smell completely out of the uniform.  Still, he'd dared wait no longer on such an important matter.

"The count's skull was fractured in the fall, your majesty."  He clasped his hands behind his back, trying to keep from visibly shaking with the cold.  "A number of bone shards were turned inward, embedding themselves into the brain."  Rolling the count's corpse over had caused most of the mess on his uniform, and a great deal of what was left of the count's grey matter was now smeared on his doublet and sleeves.  "There's no way to prove it for certain, your grace, but I believe that the count was killed when something heavy hit his head and caved in his skull.  The wound is in the back of his head, so I believe he was attacked from behind.  The wound was angled left to right; perhaps a right-handed man.  Throwing the count down the tower stairs simply provided an excuse for the damage; he probably died from the initial attack."

"Was he struck by a sword?"

"I don't know, sir.  The damage to the skull was slightly longer than it was wide, and the deepest part of the wound was at the edge.  It could have been an oil torch or some other heavy bar of metal, your majesty."

"There were torches ensconced along the tower staircase."  The archduke leaned back in his chair, absently tapping a ring against the wooden tabletop.  "This seems to exonerate Lord Braudy, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, sir.  He might have been strong enough to push the count down the stairs, but not to cave in his skull."

"Very good, Rook.  Report to the captain and then go home."

"Thank you, your grace."  Corbin bowed and backed out of the room.  The change in temperature made him shiver.  Seaharrow's halls were wide and cold, and a chill breeze blew through the high, narrow windows.  He ground his teeth together to keep them from chattering and picked up the horse blanket he'd left outside the archduke's chamber door.  It would be a long walk back down to Seasedge.

***

"Good," Captain Bracken said with satisfaction, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip from his cup of Ariyan tea.  "That should seal young Aster's fate.  I'll write up a warrant for his arrest and get things rolling.  Better keep the count's body in the smokehouse just a bit longer, in case the justices want to see the evidence themselves."

"They won't.  The count's been dead a long time."

"Well, we'll invite them to take a look, anyway," the captain said with a dry chuckle.  "Do them good.  Puffed up windbags, most of them; never got their hands dirty in their lives.  Speaking of dirty, you'd better change before you go home.  Mhairi won't be pleased if you bring those clothes into the house."

Corbin looked down at his damp uniform.  The black fabric hid most of the stains, but as it warmed, its charnel smell grew stronger.  He'd mostly grown accustomed to the reek, but every once in a while he caught a whiff of rotten flesh.  The captain was stoically ignoring the smell, but then, he'd been a soldier in his youth.  He'd seen and smelled a lot of death along the Rhuobhe border.

"Do you have anything I could borrow?"

"I think we can scrounge something up.  Alan!"

The constable poked his head into the door.

"Yes, sir?"

"Find some clothes for Rook here so his mother won't make him sleep outside tonight."

Alan grinned.

"Yes, sir!"

Bracken picked up the top sheet of a stack of parchment, glanced at it, and shook his head.

"This bloody Kracauer case has taken up so much of my time, I haven't even glanced at the week's reports."

"Do you want me to look them over?"

"Nothing here to interest you, Rook.  A couple of petty thefts, some complaints about fraudulent weights in the marketplace -- tell your mother not to buy her bread from Tagin, he hollows out his loaves; this time I'm going to throw him in your stocks for a few days to see if he learns his lesson -- some public drunkenness," Bracken paused about halfway down the page.  "What do you know about this Celtchar, Rook?"

"The preacher?"  Corbin shrugged.  "Not much.  Gereint was asking about him today, too.  Has he done something wrong?"

"No, but I've got a few constables keeping an eye on him.  The man's obviously a fraud, and I'd love to catch him breaking a law so I could throw him out of town."

"I don't think Gereint would mind.  But he says it's impossible to convict a priest of lying."

Bracken smiled.

"Dangerous words, Rook."

Someone pounded on the headquarters door, and they heard Alan answer.  A low murmur of voices, and then Alan ushered the undertaker, Jon Coffin, into the room.

"Jon?  What's wrong?"  Corbin stood, concerned.  "Is someone sick?"

Jon shook his head, wringing his battered, stained old leather hat in his hands as he shuffled from foot to foot.  He fixed a pleading gaze on Corbin, preferring to address his friend instead of the captain.

"Grave robbers," he said mournfully.  "They dug out one of my graves.  I thought I heard a noise in the cemetery, so I got dressed and went to see what was wrong.  We get kids sometimes, you know, and animals.  When I got there, all that was left was the open hole.  They broke open the coffin and took the body right out.  No sign of it at all, but there was footprints all over."

"You didn't see anybody running away?" Bracken asked sharply.

"No."  Jon's hands kept moving around the brim of his hat, betraying his uneasiness.  "Not a glimpse.  I figgered I'd best come on in to town to tell someone, in case it's one of them dead murderers walking around again, like last fall."

"Whose grave was it?" Corbin asked grimly.

"A fresh one, like you'd figger a grave robber would want.  Just buried her yesterday.  Young girl named Elspeth, died of a cough."

"Someone had better go out to investigate,"  Bracken said firmly, looking at Corbin.

***

Corbin held up the lantern and walked around the open grave.  Cold clumps of hard dirt were scattered around the dry grass -- it had been a hasty job.

Jon stood a yard away, staring glumly at the executioner.

"Is it more black magic?"

"I think so."  The executioner walked to the edge of the grave, crouched, and half-stepped, half-slid in, lantern swinging wildly.  The hole to the coffin was narrow and uneven, barely uncovering the lid.  At least in the grave the cold winter breeze couldn't cut through his damp uniform.  "It's hard to say."  He gingerly picked up one of the broken planks of the coffin lid and turned it over.  "There are gouges here.  Maybe nails -- or claws."

"You'll take care of it, won't you?"  Jon sounded hopeful.

Corbin looked down at the shattered coffin and remembered the effort it had taken him to pry a coffin lid off just a few hours ago.

"This might be a job for a priest, Jon.  Or a mage."

"Won't the body be back by morning, like the last one?"

"Only if we're lucky."  Corbin set the lantern on the edge of the grave and clambered out.  A few more stains on his uniform hardly mattered anymore.  "You say this was a girl?"

"Couldn't be more than fourteen.  Pretty little thing, even as thin and wretched as she was.  Makes you wonder sometimes, what the gods are thinking when they take `em that young."

Corbin stood next to the lantern, frowning.  She hardly sounded like the type to have made dark pacts, and the old tales indicated that necromancers preferred to work with criminals' corpses.  Maybe this was just a normal grave-robbery.  There was a black market for corpses -- anatomists and artists sometimes bought them.

But the damage to the grave still looked to him like it had been caused by something coming out, not going in.

***

The executioner woke to the sound of somebody pounding on the door, and groped around through the clothes folded on the end of the bed for his breeches.  As he pulled them on, he could hear his mother's voice and that of one of the town guards.

"What is it?" he asked, tucking his shirt into his pants as he left the room.  He sneezed once and sniffed.  "What's wrong?"

"The captain wants you!"  The constable's eyes were wide.  "Celtchar's raised someone from the dead, and everyone's in an uproar!"

"Impossible!" Mhairi scoffed, turning away and pouring two cups of tea.  "Dear, you can't go out like that -- where's your doublet?  Have the temples heard about this?"

"Yes, it's all over town -- thank you," the constable said, taking the cup and drinking deeply.  Corbin went back into his room to finish dressing.  "They've even called in Magus Gereint!"

"Is it more necromancy, then?"

"I don't know, but --"  the constable shook her head and drained the cup.  "She's out there talking to people, the girl I mean, and she looks as alive as ever.  And it's broad daylight!"

Corbin finished lacing up his doublet, ran a hand over his short beard, decided he looked presentable enough, and walked out again.

"All right, let's go."

"Corbin, your hair --"

"Mum, this is important.  Nobody's going to care how I look."  He kissed her on the cheek, took a sip of tea, and set the cup on the table.  "Oh, and don't worry about my other uniform -- I'll wash it tonight."

"What about your other uniform?" Mhairi asked suspiciously as he pulled his threadbare coat off the hook by the door.

"It's okay.  Don't worry about it.  Bye, Mum."

"Corbin, tell Halder I expect you home for dinner!  And tell him to come over, too!"

"Yes'm."  Corbin and the constable hurried outside, pulling their collars up against the chill wind.  He sneezed again as they strode down the cobbled street.  "So, what happened?"

"The dead girl -- Elspeth -- the captain said you'd know -- she's back.  In the marketplace, with Celtchar and his followers, and her family, and she's alive."  The constable shook her head.  "I'd say it's impossible if I hadn't seen her myself."

"You're sure it's the same girl?"

"My kid sister used to play with her before she got sick.  It's the same girl."

A ring of constables patrolled the area.  Corbin and his guide walked past them down the wide, shallow stairs into the crowded marketplace.  Half of the shops and stalls were still closed up, and the other half had been abandoned.  Everyone was pressing into the central open market. 

Corbin's frown deepened as he was jostled and pushed, and his hand impatiently fell on the hilt of his constable's sword.  The two of them slowly shoved their way to the front, where Celtchar was loudly proclaiming the miracle and a frail, pale girl was surrounded by half-frightened family.  Her hands were bandaged.  Captain Bracken was there, leaning on his cane and listening.  Corbin saw Swordmaster Noelon and his protege Warpriest Laile speaking in low voices to Champion Ganelon and Knight Cet.  The warpriest had saved his life that summer, when he'd nearly hanged.  Numerous lesser clerics milled behind them, eyes wide and voices hushed.  He recognized a few of aristocrats in the crowd; the Osheigle and Feargus boys stood near the front, gaping, their poise lost in the excitement.  Numerous merchants crowded close, including Guildmaster Borthein, resplendent in a russet velvet-and-fur coat, surrounded by his clerks and assistants.

Corbin started to move toward Captain Bracken when a trumpet pealed.  He fell back with the rest of the crowd as the archduke rode in, two guards beside him, one herald before him, and Magus Gereint slightly behind.  The herald lowered her trumpet, took a firmer grip on her banner, and sidled her horse to one side.  The guards also fell back, letting their lord and the mage ride past them.

The archduke reined in his warhorse and gazed thoughtfully at Celtchar and the girl.  Aeric was a powerfully built man, with the broad chest and muscle-banded arms and legs of a warrior.  His brown hair and beard were streaked with Blood-red, and his hazel eyes were steady and piercing.  The archduke eschewed frivolous vanities for a simple shirt of chainmail beneath the royal purple cloak that signified Emperor Roele's bloodline; he didn't need gold and gemstones to command respect, and the crowd fell silent around him.  Corbin fought off another sneeze, digging in his coat pocket for a oily rag and using it to wipe his nose.  He'd left home too quickly; he'd forgotten his handkerchief.

"Champion.  Swordmaster."

The two priests stepped forward, bowing.

"Was this girl brought back from the dead?"

They glanced at each other, each reluctant to venture an opinion with his rival listening.  For a moment silence stretched, and then Magus Gereint's creaky voice broke the tension.

"I detect no magic on her, your grace."

The crowd murmured.

"And on the preacher?"

"Something...."  Gereint frowned, shivering slightly as the morning breeze gusted up.  One gloved hand clutched his fur cloak closer around his chest.  "I believe he may be Blooded, your grace; but it isn't a strong line."

More murmurs, and Celtchar stared impassively at the mage, reaching out to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder.  She glanced at him, eyes wide, and then back at the regent before her.  In the crowd, Corbin jammed his hands into his worn-out old coat and felt a shiver run down his spine.

The archduke smiled slightly, humorlessly.

"A man with the blood of kings in his veins who can raise the dead from the grave.  I would be honored to make you my guest in Seaharrow, priest." The invitation was firm, and the archduke's tone brooked no disagreement.  Celtchar reluctantly bowed.  "And mistress Elspeth, if you and your parents would also come to Seaharrow as my guests, I would like to meet the girl who has been so honored by the gods."

The girl and her family just stared at the archduke.  Elspeth's father swallowed, bobbing his head in frightened acquiescence.

"I will be most interested to hear your comments on this situation," the archduke continued, looking at the two priests.  Both bowed again, lips tightening.  "Captain, see that the crowds do not get out of hand."

"Yes, your grace," Bracken said firmly.

"I'll stay here," Gereint said, slowly swinging out of the saddle without waiting for the archduke's permission.  Aeric seemed undisturbed by his mage's lack of ceremony, merely pointing to Elspeth and gesturing to the horse.  She shrank back, frightened, and Celtchar gently took her arm, leading her to the horse and murmuring softly.  The horse tossed its head and shied away.  In the meantime, Gereint pulled his cloak around his shoulders and walked to the captain.  Bracken spoke politely to him, then turned and began snapping orders to the constables around him.

The herald blew her horn and the small group slowly rode off.  Behind them, the crowd's voice swelled.  Corbin pushed his way through to the captain.

"--night.  Ah, here he is.  Rook, you left a note that said the grave may have been crawled out of, rather than broken into?"  The captain and the mage turned to look at him.  Corbin bowed to Gereint, then turned to the captain.

"I think so, but it was hard to tell.  I asked Jon to leave the grave alone until somebody could go out to investigate by daylight."

"You'll show the site to Magus Gereint, then.  Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?"  Bracken turned to the frail mage.

"Find us two horses."  Gereint turned and walked toward the nearest shop.  Bracken calmly gave the order, then turned to Corbin.  As the mage vanished through the doorway, the captain spoke again in a lower voice.

"Sorry -- but you two have worked together before, and I'd rather keep my regular men here.  This is strange business, and I can't even guess what's going to happen in the next few hours."

"Do you really think she's back from the dead?"

"Well, she looks alive enough to me," Bracken shrugged, limping away from the crowds.  Corbin walked beside him, hands clasped behind his back as he listened.  "Still, the priests looked skeptical, and I've never heard of anyone being resurrected -- not without black magic involved somewhere along the line."

"If Celtchar's right...."  Corbin stopped, more disturbed by the thought than he'd expected to be.  If Celtchar was right, then was everything he'd said about Corbin right, too?  The thought distressed him, and Bracken had to pull him out of the way of a merchant before they ran into each other.

"Careful, boy.  This isn't something for you and me to worry about.  It's a matter for priests and mages."

"I suppose."  Corbin remembered his mother's words.  "Oh, Mum says you should join us for dinner tonight."

"If I get a chance."  Bracken turned and looked at the crowd.  A constable was walking toward them, leading two saddled horses.  "We'll see what happens."

***

Nothing happened that day, or the week after.  The mood in Seasedge was tense but quiet, filled with speculation and rumor but little hard fact.  They said -- and Bracken confirmed -- that Elspeth's mother had followed Celtchar, that he'd been nursing the girl since the first days of her sickness, and had blessed her as she'd died.  The girl and the preacher were both kept in the castle, the archduke's honored -- and sequestered -- guests.  Seasedge's two head priests of the Northern Imperial Temple of Haelyn and the Hidden Temple of Cuiraécen also remained in Seaharrow, their acolytes hurrying up and down Castleroad with huge tomes and ornate scrollcases.

Corbin oiled his stocks, swept his gallows, nursed a cold, and read through the last month of court records as he sat by the fireside drinking tea.  His mother saw Jon once in town, buying wood-and-leather hinges, and the undertaker quietly told her that people were beginning to order coffins with hinged instead of nailed lids -- to facilitate their escape from the grave should they come back to life. 

Eight days later, with the archduke's permission, Celtchar gave an old woman his blessing as she died.  Hundreds of strangers watched as her hinged casket was trundled into Jon Coffin's waggon to be carried out to the cemetery.  At her family's request, Jon dug the grave only half as deep as usual, shaking his head all the while.

That night, while the Coffins waited restlessly in their cottage, Corbin sat outside in the cemetery, leaning against a grave marker with his sword across his lap.  The captain was on the other side of the grave, and four constables were stationed outside the cemetery, one on each side of the low stone wall.

He awoke from an uncomfortable half-drowse some time after the temple bells had rung matins.  His gloved hand tightened on the sword hilt as he listened.

An unpleasant grating, scraping sound came from the grave. 

Corbin glanced at Captain Bracken.  The old soldier nodded once and picked up his cane.  Both of them slowly, awkwardly stood, limbs numb and cold from hours on the cold ground.

For a second, staring down at the grave, Corbin felt a sense of deja vu.  It had been this time last winter that he'd first seen a dead man walk, although he'd heard them every year since becoming Boeruine's Lord High Executioner.  That night had been just as cold, by the docks, and the captain had been with him then, too -- a stranger.

It had been a long year since then, he thought, flexing his fingers on the sword hilt and shivering.  A long, bad year.

The clods of frosty dirt over the grave bulged and began to tumble aside.  A hand shoved through the dirt, and then another.

Corbin made the sign of Cuiraécen and slowly edged forward.  The captain nodded again, his own sword drawn, and pointed.

Taking a deep breath, the executioner reached down and drew the old lady out of her grave.

***

"Fraud," Gereint sneered, sitting next to the fire, delicate hands wrapped around a mug of steaming tea.  Corbin sat opposite him, and Jon, Tomas, and Missus Coffin all sat silently on the other end of the table, overwhelmed by the presence of a noble -- the archduke's mage, at that -- in their tiny, one-room cottage.  Corbin had tossed and turned in a pile of blankets by the hearth, trying to catch an hour or two of sleep while the constables escorted the gleeful old lady back into town.  He'd heard the rest of the family doing much the same thing in their wide bed.  Now he sat in his wrinkled uniform, wondering if he'd caught a cold again, while the mage rested from the ride out from town.  The sky was just beginning to lighten, and the clouds were low.

"Have the priests reached any conclusions, my lord?"

"They suspect drugs," Gereint said, pausing a moment to take a sip from his cup.  His face was flushed, and Corbin guessed that the mage had been taking his own drugs, the same ones he'd taken when the two had been tracking down the renegade wizard Ousel.  "After all, Celtchar had been nursing the girl from the beginning.  He --" Gereint paused for a shallow cough, "-- could have dosed her with something that mimicked death.  Then, when she woke up, she clawed her way out of the grave and ran back into town."

"Is that possible?"

"Unusual.  Not impossible.  Especially not if she had help -- someone to dig the dirt off the grave or loosen the coffin nails, for example."  The wizard shrugged.  "We're all capable of doing surprising things, given the right stimulus."

Corbin nodded.  He'd met enough murderers to believe that.  Gereint finished his tea and set the cup down.

"Show me the grave."

The sky was grey and overcast.  Corbin shivered as they closed the iron gate and trudged out to the old lady's open grave, the coffin laying next to it where they'd pulled it out for investigation.  There Gereint stopped him and began casting spells, muttering to himself and sketching symbols in the air and dirt.  Corbin was familiar with the routine and waited quietly, slipping Jon's keys onto the leather loop in his belt that held his own.  The cemetery was stark and forbidding under the low sky.  A field of weatherworn wood and stone grave markers stretched out on either side of them.  The criminals' section was in a corner, with nothing but stakes to mark the graves.  On the other side, closest to town, were the aristocrats' tombs and monuments, a closely packed city of stone.  The grass was dead.  Leafless trees reached like skeletons toward the sky.

"Did you investigate the grave itself?"

He turned back to Gereint and saw that the mage had finished his spellcasting.

"No, my lord."

"Do so."

Corbin dutifully dropped into the grave.  As soon as his boots hit the bottom it collapsed, plunging him waist-deep in cold earth.  He shouted and threw out his arms, fingers digging into the dirt and keeping him from falling further.

Gereint began to cough, covering his mouth with his handkerchief as he crouched next to the graveside. 

His precipitous descent halted, Corbin gingerly laid his palms flat on the dirt next to him and tried to lift himself out.  The soil under his hands sank several inches.

"C-careful," Gereint choked, turning and spitting into the grass.  He looked back.  "What did you fall --" He cleared his throat, turned, and spat again.  "-- What did you fall into?"

"A pit," Corbin said shortly, easing himself up again.  The dirt didn't sink any lower, and he carefully slid to one side.  A narrow, dark hole gaped in the center of the grave.  He brushed dirt off his pants legs and gazed at the pit.  "Jon never dug that."

"No, he didn't," Gereint said, his voice rough from coughing but still resonant with satisfaction.  "How deep is it?"

Moving cautiously, Corbin twisted around and poked his head over the hole.

"It's dark."

"Hand me your sword."  Gereint whispered a few words and the simple iron blade burst into dazzling light.  The effort made the mage burst into wet-sounding coughs.  He dropped the sword and curled in on himself as convulsions wracked his body.  Corbin picked the weapon up, unsure whether he should say or do anything.  Deciding it was better not to presume, he flattened himself on his stomach and plunged the sword point-first into the hole.

"It curves a little to the right," he reported.  "The sides aren't very stable, though; the dirt keeps crumbling."  He looked up at Gereint, who was wheezing but back in control of himself.  "What was it?  Some sort of big worm?"  He'd heard stories about giant worms that lived in the earth, but he'd always thought they were tales to frighten children.

"Something more dangerous," Gereint said in a rasping voice.  He hawked and spat to one side again.  When he turned back, crimson stained his lips.  He wiped them with his handkerchief.  "Skinshifters."

"Undead?"  Corbin edged away from the hole, keeping a firm grip on his glowing sword.

"Inhuman, anyway.  People who have made unholy pacts in exchange for immortality."  Gereint coughed into his bloody handkerchief and pulled his cloak around him.  "When their flesh decays, they need to replace it, so they steal from others.  Usually they kill vagabonds, people nobody will miss."  Gereint's expression darkened.  "But in this case ...."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't question me, Rook.  I have --"  Gereint coughed again, then pressed a hand against his chest, as though it hurt to breathe.

Corbin silently stood and left the grave, sheathing his sword.  After a moment, he ventured another question.  "What are they doing with the rest of the bodies?"

"Probably eating them."  Gereint stood, doubled over.  Corbin discreetly glanced away, down, and saw scarlet streaking the yellow grass.  The viscous stains contained more than just blood.  He averted his eyes.  Nothing like that should come from a man who was still alive.

Gereint slowly straightened, one hand still pressed against his chest, and looked around.  Then he pointed to the aristocrat's section of the cemetery.

"They'll probably be in a tomb. A large one."

Corbin led Gereint through the narrow streets between the aristocrats' tombs: small, low ones for the individual dead; thick walls that stacked casket upon casket; and large family tombs nearly as big as Corbin's house and much taller.  Seasedge had been using this cemetery for two hundred years and although the poorer plots were reused once the bodies and coffins had rotted away, this section, with its permanent graves, was pressed for space.  Jon or his son would need to expand it, eventually.  Now, as tightly packed as it was, a visitor could almost imagine himself walking through a small town, with every house sealed or gated.

"Does Coffin have the keys?"

"No.  The families keep them."  Corbin hesitated.  Captain Bracken had shown him how to pick a simple lock one day, while they were debating over whether to put locks on the Rooks' house during its post-fire reconstruction.  Bracken had wanted them to lock the door and windows, but Mhairi had protested.  In the end she had won.  The Rooks continued to rely on their reputation and the honesty of their neighbors to keep their few goods safe ... and on the fact that the captain of the city guard had become a regular visitor.

Gereint just nodded and kept prowling through the tombs, one hand pressed against his chest and the other clutching his handkerchief.

"Here."  The mage stopped at last, just as the first drops of cold rain began to fall.  He pointed to a tomb.  "Do you --" he coughed, "do you see the trail?"

Corbin nodded silently, pulling his hands out of his coat pockets.  There was a bare trail in the grass that led up to the broad steps of the tomb.  He cautiously walked forward and glanced at the lock on the rusty iron gate.  The lock was dirty, but he could smell fresh oil.  He ran a fingertip across the keyhole.  Oil glistened on his glove.  He returned to the mage, who had broken into another fit of coughing.

"Y-- We should get out of the rain," Corbin suggested.  He groped for a way to make the comment seem innocuous.  "I just got over a cold.  I don't want to catch another one so soon."

Gereint shook his head, leaning against one of the tombs with an arm wrapped around his chest and scarlet stains spreading through his handkerchief.  The mage's complexion was waxen, and Corbin couldn't tell if it was sweat or rain that trickled down his face.

"T-Th--" Gereint couldn't get the word out, gasping between each cough.  His breath bubbled liquidly in his lungs.  He took a deep breath, then gagged, a trickle of red dripping from between his lips.  Unable to stand it any longer, Corbin stepped forward and slid one arm around the mage's back, using the other to grip Gereint's elbow.

"We've got to get back to Coffin's," he said firmly.  Gereint shook his head, but blood was running out of his nose and his lips were covered with a pinkish froth.  Corbin stared in dismay at the handkerchief clutched in Gereint's hand.  Black chunks of tissue and red streaks of blood flecked the silk -- the mage was literally coughing up his own lungs.  Gereint's body trembled with each straining heartbeat, each drowning man's shuddering gasp for air.

If he didn't do something, the archduke's mage was going to die in front of him.  He looked around, but the icy rain obscured his vision, rattling off the marble and granite tombs and stinging his face.  There was no help in sight.

Feeling sick, he realized that he couldn't let Gereint die without at least trying to help him.

His hands tightened around the mage as he searched for the shadow taint that burned like cold fire in his own blood.  Stomach churning, he called it forth, channeling it into the dying mage.  It was a small trick, one that he had reason to believe carried its own poisonous price -- but it was a form of healing, no matter what the source or the cost.  He couldn't cure the mage's disease, but he might be able to give the mage a little more time.  All he needed was enough time to get him back to the Coffin's cottage, to send Tomas into the city for a healer.

When he was done, he shook the icy rain from his face and saw Gereint staring straight at him.  Their eyes locked.  The mage started to say something, but blood spilled from his lips, and he sagged in Corbin's arms.

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