you wake me!
The voice was made of echoes, of small green tiles falling from the badly mortared sarcophagus, of golden ornaments rattling together like metal cobwebs.
you dare to wake me!
peasant! commoner! you come into the tomb of the great … the great … the consort of kings, the great …
“Forgotten your name, have you?” asked the dust-wife. “Well, it happens, kings and commoners alike.” She thumped her staff on the floor of the tomb. “So what kept you furious all this time?”
replaced replaced replaced! The wind went around the room again. set aside! how dare they, how dare they. do they not know who I am? the great … the great … Again the stirring wind, the sense of a shriek somewhere beyond human hearing, like bats hunting overhead.
“Poor thing,” murmured Agnes, having freed herself from Fenris’s attempt to protect her. “Set aside, were you? Were you the king’s mistress?”
mistress! I was his wife of seven years! but I bore him no child so he took another and when her brats were murdered with a scarlet cord, they put the blame on me! me!
“Did you murder them?” asked the dust-wife, sounding interested rather than horrified.
no.
I wish I had.
if they would blame me and send me home to my parents to die, at least I might have done the crime.
I did not love them.
but no.
Marra was starting to think that Vorling had come by his wickedness honestly, at least.
“It seems we’ve stumbled on an ancient scandal,” said Agnes. “A daughter of the king sent home in disgrace.”
disgrace.
oh yes.
they could not kill me, you know, so they locked me up in here.
I was buried alive to hide their shame.
Fenris inhaled sharply.
does that shock you, peasant?
it shocked me down here in the dark.
I screamed and no one came and eventually I died and still no one came.
“So they buried you alive…” The dust-wife frowned. “Do you know the layout of the catacombs?”
no.
why would I?
I am a queen, not a crawler of tombs.
The dust-wife narrowed her eyes. “What did you see when they brought you here to bury you? They must have already begun your father’s tomb, but what did your grandfather’s tomb look like?”
The death mask rolled its painted eyes.
I don’t care.
he is long dead and he was dull.
I am a queen and the consort of kings. I am the great …
The dust-wife slapped her red-tinted palm against the sarcophagus and the spirit yelped as if it had been struck.
aah!
how dare you, peasant.
do you not know who I am?
“No, and at the moment, neither do you.”
The spirit went raging around the room, tiles flying. The dust-wife lifted her hand again and it quieted. When it spoke next, the voice was sullen, the distant keening of resentful birds.
he was buried with his boat.
he always talked of it until I wanted to scream.
the raids up the rivers when he was young.
dull dull dull.
“Thank you,” said the dust-wife gravely. “That is very helpful.”
I do not care about helping you.
you are also dull.
the thief-wheel will catch you soon enough and you will go wailing through the dark forever.
do not think that I will acknowledge you, peasant.
“Thief-wheel?” said the dust-wife, but the ghost only laughed. One last, weak sweep around the crypt, stirring the broken jade fragments to knee height, and then the death mask closed its eyes and the sarcophagus was only a coffin knocked off its plinth, and the gold ornaments fell silent.
“Is she gone?” asked Marra.
The dust-wife shrugged. “More or less. She’s still in there, but she doesn’t want to come out, and it would take more power than I’m willing to spend to compel her.”
“Imagine being here all this time,” murmured Agnes, “and still being so angry.”
“Injustice and the desire for revenge age the body, but they keep the soul going halfway to forever,” said the dust-wife practically. “And being buried alive for a crime you didn’t commit will certainly keep you going for a while. I doubt she was a particularly nice person to begin with, but we don’t bury people alive for being snobs.”
“What do you think a thief-wheel is?” asked Marra.
“No idea.”
“I have visited countries where they break criminals on cart wheels,” said Fenris slowly. “They strap them across the wheel and lay them out to die of exposure. It’s ugly business.”
“They don’t do that here,” said Marra, “at least, not that I’ve ever heard of.” She frowned. “Of course, in this ghost’s time, maybe things were different.”
“At least we know to look for a boat,” said Agnes practically.
They found the boat about twenty minutes later, after a few hallways leading to minor royals and their various family members. The dust-wife reported no ghosts, or if there were, they were sleeping soundly.
“Well, that’s a boat, all right,” said Agnes.
It was about twenty feet long, with a prow carved in the shape of a snarling beast. Oars stuck out like centipede feet and the sarcophagus sat in the center of the longboat in a place of honor. The carvings all around the tomb were of waves and sea monsters and naval battles, and the mast of the ship still bore a sail, preserved by the cold dry air. Marra could look up at it and make out blue and white stripes on the fabric.
She rather wished that they had time for her to go up and look and see what it was made of. No. Focus. We have to find the old king before the christening.
“Which way from here?” asked Fenris.
“If we assume that one of the earliest kings bound the godmother,” said Marra, “then we head toward his father, and then his father, and so forth.”
“This direction, then,” said the dust-wife. They crossed the tomb with its ancient ship and into the hallway beyond.
There were five openings off this hallway, but they ignored them all. The tomb at the end was less grand than the ones that came after, though the carvings were more realistic. Marra could have done without the image of the beast with its mouth full of entrails, each curl and twist lovingly detailed, crouched over the entryway.
The tomb was a crossroad, four openings on four walls. They looked at each other helplessly and went forward. Another three openings, another cross …
Marra began to feel an itch at the back of her brain, as if she’d seen something like this before.
Was there a map somewhere in the palace? Something about this seems familiar.
She did not have time to dwell on it. The next tomb had been robbed.
“Saint’s teeth,” muttered Agnes. The sarcophagus lid was smashed. The rows of weapons had clearly been plundered. A broken pike lay discarded on the floor where it had been used unsuccessfully as a lever. Someone had chiseled the gems from the plinth, leaving beasts with broken sockets for eyes.
“They didn’t finish raiding it,” said the dust-wife thoughtfully.
“How can you tell?”
“In my line of work, you get a feel for it. They may have been interrupted, or were too nervous to finish the job.” She laid her hand on the sarcophagus and tilted her head. After a moment she said, “Whatever’s in there, it’s lost most of its personality. It’s probably annoyed that it’s been robbed, but there’s just not enough left to work with.”
Something whistled nearby. Everyone jumped. Bonedog jerked upright, straining against the leash. Fenris was holding him now, and the dog pulled so hard that he nearly jerked the warrior off his feet.
“The ghost?” asked Fenris, trying to hold Bonedog.
“Not this one,” said the dust-wife. “Another one wandering the halls, perhaps.” She turned in her tracks. “I can’t quite find it…”
Bonedog subsided slowly, his illusionary hackles lowering. The whistle was not repeated.