Then, step by step, she began to fade.
Marra wanted to cry out, to beg her not to leave, but she bit her lower lip. The gods had intervened on her behalf. Surely they would not take her only halfway.
Wait. Wait and see. The world is not always cruel.
She followed the fading footsteps of the saint. It seemed to take a long time, shifting slowly from gold to silver, and finally Marra realized that the saint was gone and the silver light came from farther ahead, from a vial filled with moonlight trapped in a jar.
She broke into a run, not caring if the thief-wheel heard her now, half sobbing. “Fenris! Agnes! Dust-wife!”
“Marra?”
She broke into the room and before she could even focus, Fenris had thrown his arms around her and had his face pressed against her hair. “You’re alive,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you. You’re alive.”
“You’re alive, too!” she said. She wanted to stop and think about what I thought I’d lost you might mean, but it didn’t quite seem like the time. And he was very warm and she was very cold and it was very pleasant to be held in such a fashion. “You’re alive.”
“Yes, yes,” said the dust-wife testily. “We’re all alive. Please don’t cry on me about it, though.”
Fenris finally released her, although not without reluctance. Bonedog immediately leapt up on her, washing her face with his tongue.
“What happened to you?” asked Marra. “I got picked up by the thief-wheel…”
“So did I,” said Agnes. “Didn’t realize it got you, too.”
“Bonedog ran after you,” said Fenris. “Dragged me with him, and I thought he might have the best chance of following you. When he finally lost track, we were totally lost.”
“How did you get back?” asked Marra.
“Oh, I had Finder do it,” said Agnes. She patted her chest, where the exhausted chick was sleeping. “Asked him to take me somewhere safe. Then the dust-wife turned up.”
“Bonedog found them,” said Fenris. “I was going to suggest we start looking for you, but then you turned up. How did you find us?”
“A saint led me,” said Marra. “The one from the goblin market.”
All three of them stared at her.
“Huh,” said the dust-wife.
“How fascinating!” said Agnes.
“A few months ago, I would have thought you were mad or lying,” said Fenris. “Now I suppose I’m just surprised she didn’t stay for tea.”
“But how did you get away?” asked Marra. “The thief-wheel fell on you. I saw it.”
The dust-wife sniffed haughtily. “It was nothing.”
“It squashed you!”
“Fine, it was something.” She looked annoyed. Marra noticed that her coat was rumpled and there were a few stains where the contents of the pockets had broken. The brown hen was missing a couple of tail feathers. “They were very disobedient dead.”
“Bad dead. No treat,” said Fenris, not quite under his breath.
Marra choked and spluttered and began, helplessly, to laugh. So did Agnes. The dust-wife folded her arms and the hen went errrk indignantly, which only made Marra laugh harder.
“I’m glad you’re all amused,” said the dust-wife when they had giggled themselves out.
“What was it, though?” asked Marra, torn between hilarity and renewed shudders.
“A tangle. A mangle. Graverobbers and a few unfortunate souls, probably lost builders. The curse ripped their spirits out and wadded them all up together, to roam the catacombs and find more. But it wasn’t terribly well designed. They never put an upper limit on the souls, so it collected too many over the centuries and got muddled. That was the problem giving it orders. Nothing’s in charge anymore; it’s just blundering around in confusion.” She grimaced. “I slapped it and it ran away. And you didn’t steal anything, so it couldn’t eat your souls, it just dragged you around. It’s still out there, but it won’t come anywhere near me again.”
“Can you unmake it?” asked Fenris. “Set them free?”
“I could if we had a few days to spare. But we don’t, so I sent it away.” She looked down her nose, the lines drawing tight around her mouth. “We’re running out of time.”
“Are we?” asked Marra.
“What?” said Agnes.
“I fainted for a bit,” Marra admitted. “How long has it been?”
Fenris’s face was suddenly grave. “Almost a full day,” he said. “We have to hurry. We’re going to be late to the christening.”
* * *
Four corridors and an intersection. Two intersections and three more corridors. Marra’s mind tugged again at the sensation that she knew this pattern, that she had seen something like it, but it wouldn’t surface. Perhaps it didn’t matter.
They had found the tomb of the first king.
It was small. Marra had expected something huge and grand, vast archways framed by carved warriors, gold and jade and glory. Instead it was a little stone room with wooden beams holding up the ceiling. There was a single sword, tossed almost casually across the stone coffin lid. The king’s death mask was very simple and had cracked across the forehead like a scar.
The walls were the most impressive part. Red and black paint glimmered in the captive moonlight. The murals were stark and strong and age had tinted the white pigment of the Northern faces to blue, so it seemed that an army of stylized blue-skinned warriors swept across the walls of the tomb. In the center, a blue king sat upon a throne, holding a sword across his knees.
The dust-wife laid her hands on the sarcophagus and gave a short, sharp little laugh, like a fox’s bark. “Oh yes,” she said. “Yes, he’s in there.”
“You can tell?”
“Gods, yes. Like having a sleeping bear in the room.” She closed her eyes and leaned her weight on her palms. “Wake up, dead man. We have business with you.”
Marra, insomuch as she expected anything, thought that perhaps the death mask might begin to speak, as it had for the daughter who had been buried alive. Instead the sword rattled on the lid, and on the wall, the painted king lifted his head and stared with pigmented eyes at the dust-wife.
Why have you come here?
The words had no sound, but the echoes rang through the room. Marra felt as if they were being pounded into her skull with a metal hammer. There was weight to them and a mind like steel and stone. Bonedog yipped and tried to hide behind Fenris’s knees.
Why do you intrude upon my grave?
“You must release the godmother from her service,” said the dust-wife. “She has been held far too long and it is harming your descendants.”
Godmother? What godmother do you speak of?
“The woman who blesses your children and who serves the royal line.”
Oh. The witchskin. The contempt tasted like tin inside Marra’s head. I won; she lost. I could have slain her on the spot, but I gave her immortality. She should be grateful.
The dust-wife’s fingers curled into fists against the sarcophagus lid. “Eternal slavery is no gift.”
The painted king narrowed his eyes. Behind the throne, the painted warriors moved and rippled, lifting their shields. An archer drew the charcoal line of his bowstring taut. Who are you?
“One who can talk to the dead.”
What is the witchskin to you?
“Nothing. We’ve never even met. But I do not allow the living to serve the dead forever. Release her, and I will leave you to your rest.”
Beg me, then. Perhaps I’ll release her if you beg.
The dust-wife raised her eyebrows. “Do you think I wouldn’t beg for another person’s life? I will, if it would sway you.”
The painted king looked away, the blue paint moving around the sour black slash of mouth. It would amuse me.
“Amusement is not enough. You must free her.”
I will not.