Peter finished scrubbing the training borrow floor as fast as he could, though the task lasted well into the night. He was curious to know what the domestics decided, but refused to abandon his task. Finally throwing the blood-tainted soap water outside, he stretched out his back.
Where were the domestics gathering? He hadn’t been given instructions or a bed. Not that he’d be able to sleep. How could he? Every time he reset, he felt rested and renewed. A bullet to the skull was as good as a long night’s rest. From that twisted perspective, he wouldn’t need to sleep until well into tomorrow.
In the dark, the gentle purple glow of the writing in the court band penetrated the fabric of his sleeve faintly. He ran his finger along the engraving through his coat, felt the impressions, and sighed. He had also promised to let Doctor Aarts run some tests on him. The doctor said he would skin Peter, so that wasn’t an appointment he was anxious to honor. He would check in on the domestics first.
Looking around, Peter saw a pair of sentries chatting in the dark. They lowered their voices, staring at him in apprehension.
Peter pushed aside the awkward silence and approached them, making sure to stay at a safe distance.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I heard the House of Nyamar is having a conference. Do you know where they are?”
The men only stared at him.
“You’re a lich?” the older one asked, after a lengthy pause, completely ignoring Peter’s question.
“Yes,” Peter said.
“Why are you fighting with us?”
“Because I am one of you.” Peter held up his left hand, showing the missing finger.
The guards looked at each other. The speaker held up his left hand, showing a nub on his shortened ring finger. “The name’s Van Zon.”
“I’m Van Seur.”
“I’m Beerens,” the other guard said. Beerens was a short man with a rural drawl and a chin that rounded upward. He stepped forward and offered his hand.
Peter stepped away. “Don’t get close to me. I’ll leech you. It’s not a threat or anything; I just can’t control it.”
Beerens stopped, studying Peter intently. “Are you sure you’re one of us?”
Peter nodded.
“I can’t say I trust you. But I hope it’s true.”
Peter knew it was only fair. Whatever he was, it would be something these men had never encountered before. Their hesitance was to be expected.
“How old are you, Van Zon?” Peter asked the one with nine fingers. He looked to be in his early fifties.
“Thirty two. I was lucky. My father freed me soon after I became a crop. I was cropped in Horvath.”
“I’ve seen Espen Hummel,” Peter said. “He’s in Stalpia, working as an executioner. He was your magistrate, right?”
Van Zon nodded darkly. “He’ll get what’s coming to him. Many good people were cropped when he turned Horvath over to Rahashel.”
“Yes,” Peter agreed. “When we turn things around, he and all the other defectors will regret throwing their lot in with Rahashel. I almost feel bad. They’re probably just like you or me. They’re only with Rahashel because they’re scared.”
“We’re scared to,” Beerens said, “only we didn’t betray our people. Those who run to Rahashel leave their families behind.”
“You here at Nine Fingers are good men,” Peter said. “You haven't lost hope like the others.”
“Hope?” Beerens snorted. “There’s no way we’ll win. No, I just couldn’t forgive myself if I died hiding. I have a family here, you know. I must stand between them and Court Rahashel.”
A sudden memory of his mother, pleading for his life, caught him off guard. Peter closed his eyes briefly and tried to breathe naturally. At least he still had someone to fight for. Iris was still on the other side of the line and didn’t have much time.
“We’re going to win,” Peter said resolutely, though inwardly, he acknowledged the arrogance of his confidence. “We have to.”
“Hope is fleeting at this point,” Van Zon said. “But if there is even the slightest chance we can win. I’ll be here to the end.”
Peter nodded, surprised by the depth of his admiration for these men. They might be simple guards, but they had a sure reason for standing out in the cold at night. Peter also had a reason, and that made him one of them.
“I’ll be here too,” he promised.
It was late, perhaps after midnight. Beerens and Van Zon looked bored, but they stood straight and held their weapons steady as they watched the fog creep across the frozen dirt.
“Do you know where the House of Nyamar is meeting?” Peter asked again.
“In one of the supply tombs. They have guards posted. I heard it’s an in-house-only meeting. No visitors.”
Peter’s face fell slightly, and he resigned himself to make good on his agreement with the doctor. “Do you guys know where Doctor Aarts would be if he is still up?”
“Second to last burrow,” Van Zon said, pointing. “It’s the research lab.”
Peter nodded his thanks and started toward the burrow. He hoped that Doctor Aarts was asleep. Something about how the doctor had shot him, point blank, on no more than a theory, made Peter’s skin itch. He’d become accustomed to being shot rather quickly, but the knowledge that he was deeply disposable made him wary of additional experimentation.
Peter approached the tomb with a white gaslight shining from the crack at the bottom of the thick door. Hesitating only momentarily, Peter rapped on the door several times and stepped away several paces.
Moments later, the door swung outward, and Doctor Aarts glared out into the night at Peter.
“You’re up,” Peter noted objectively.
“No shit.”
Peter winced at the doctor’s vulgarity.
“Well?”
“I’m here to let you do your research,” Peter said. “As promised.”
Doctor Aarts started to sigh but was interrupted by a yawn as he motioned for Peter to follow. The stout man’s eyes were red and puffy, and his posture was hunched and lazy.
Peter entered the research tomb and was instantly assailed by a wave of nausea. Peter had seen hospitals and labs before, sometimes because he was sick, others for school trips. They had been kept clean and professional. Doctor Aarts' tomb smelt horribly of flesh decay and acrid chemicals. He quickly found the source of the smell.
Body parts were sealed in numerous jars, floating in clear liquid. Flayed, leathery skin of various shades and tones were stretched across the walls. Horrible implements lay across tables in disorganized clutter. Human bones were arranged on several tables. As Peter looked at them, he noticed that they were wrong. Some had extra joints in the legs; others had fangs. One looked like a horrible hybrid of a man and a giant rat.
“Doctor,” Peter swallowed, “What exactly are you going to do to me?”
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Doctor Aarts sighed and grabbed a large meat cleaver from the table.
Peter stepped back, wide-eyed.
Doctor Aarts snorted at the reaction, the faintest traces of mockery dancing around the corners of his mouth. He set the cleaver to the side, and picked up the pad of paper beneath it.
“I’m going to ask you some questions.”
“Oh,” Peter said. “Well, okay then.”
“How do you feel? Any different from how you did before?”
“Actually, no,” Peter said.
“Unexpected,” Doctor Aarts said as he jotted down notes. “How far does your leech field extend? Can you change it? What does it feel like to die? Is it possible to kill you? Can you make ghouls? I need to know everything.”
Peter noted that the more questions Doctor Aarts asked, the less irritated he looked and the more excited he became. The doctor’s apparent fatigue also seemed to melt away.
Peter tried his best to answer the doctor’s intricate and detailed questions and Doctor Aarts frantically scribbled his answers.
As the interview progressed, Peter found himself relaxing. Despite the grotesque nature of the lab, the doctor became engrossed in his questions.
Finally, the doctor tore off a page of paper and a colored wax stick.
“I need you to take off the band so we can take a rubbing of the writings on it.”
Peter shook his head as he recalled the commandant’s definite orders to keep it on. “I can’t do that — commandant’s orders. I can take the rubbing myself. It might be hard with one hand, but I’ll do my best.”
Doctor Aarts darkened slightly but nodded. “The commandant is wise. Forget what I said about him being wrong earlier. I was angry.”
Peter nodded in relief. He wasn’t ready to confront the doctor again.
“Are there markings on the inside?”
Peter rolled up his sleeve and examined the band. The gentle radiance emitting from the engravings wasn’t enough to offer any real light but was enough to mark it as powerful.
“Yes. There seems to be some kind of writing covering the entire thing. Inside and out.
“Try to copy whatever you can.”
The doctor left the paper and pencil on the table and stepped away, allowing Peter to retrieve them safely.
Like a paper sleeve, Peter wrapped the sheet around his arm and rubbed the stick over the court band. It was awkward work to do with one hand, but after several tries, he managed to produce a semi-clear impression.
He left the paper for Doctor Aarts and stepped away. Keeping a safe distance was growing increasingly annoying.
Doctor Aarts took the paper and hurried to the back of the tomb. Peter’s curiosity pushed him to follow. The far wall was covered in posters and paper with glyphs in the language on the band.
“Where did you get these writings? What does it mean?”
Doctor Aarts flashed a smile at Peter, not a friendly smile, but a proud one. “Come look at this.”
He led Peter to a table full of glass Jars. Floating inside each one was a misshapen human heart. Some of them were small and dense. Two were elongated and purple. Another one looked like it had blossomed like a carnal flower.
“Look closely.” Doctor Aarts said.
Peter leaned in and examined the hearts closely. It took him a moment, but he recognized the same kind of glyphs burned into hearts.
“These are ghoul hearts?” Peter guessed.
Doctor Aarts nodded. “These are undamaged hearts; we had to dig them out of restrained ghouls.
Peter looked at them again. “The ones that look alike have the same writing.”
“Good eye, Van Seur.” Doctor Aarts said. “I’ve dissected many of them. They have writing inside of them as well.” He tapped the smaller, dense ones. “These are Rahashel’s Sus-stag ghouls. They all have the same writing on the inside.”
Stagnant, sustained — like the sentinels, Peter interpreted in his mind.“What does it mean?”
“The heart is the only vital organ in a ghoul. You can cut their heads off, and they’ll keep coming. I think these glyphs are some kind of programming.” Doctor Aarts said. “It’s their life source and their brain. It links them to the hive.”
“Remarkable,” Peter said in awe, his excitement growing to match that of the doctors. “Why are these hearts different?”
“They came from different kinds of ghouls. I’ve seen some pretty fascinating things here. For example, these two came from a court known as Lady Libshee. Her ghouls have extra arms. This one …” He tapped the first eggplant like a specimen. I extracted it from the belly of the ghoul it came from, but this
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one …” He tapped the second one. “I pulled it from an identical ghoul’s head.”
“Why weren’t they in their chests?” Peter asked.
“Think about it. What do we do whenever one of Rahashel’s ghouls attacks us?” Doctor Aarts asked.
“Shoot it in the — Oh. We shoot the heart,” Peter said as he caught on.
“So imagine now that each of Court Rahashel’s ghouls had a heart in random, unpredictable locations.”
“They would be much more dangerous,” Peter said. “You would have to guess where the heart is.”
“Exactly!” Doctor Aarts cried.
“But why doesn’t Court Rahashel do that?” Peter asked. “If it’s so effective, why don’t all courts make ghouls the same way?”
“I can’t say for certain.” Doctor Aarts said, “Each court seems to have their individual style when creating their ghouls. I think the real reason is the cost of changing them.”
“Tiles?” Peter guessed.
“Exactly. It takes stolen time to create time, even more so to alter their physical form. Making them sprout extra arms or moving their hearts randomly. It would take much more leeched time to make and fuel a more complicated ghoul. No doubt Court Rahashel’s ghouls are more economical.”
“So they need to decide whether to give their ghouls more power or to have more ghouls.”
“So it would seem.” Doctor Aarts said.
“Doctor,” Peter started, “They store time in tiles. Norah said you think we might be able to take time back out of the tiles.”
“I do think it might be possible. I would need to get my hands on some gas blasted tiles if I wanted to test the theory.”
“Well then, let’s ensure our plan succeeds.”
Doctor Aarts looked at Peter for a long moment. “There is one more thing I would like to test.”
“What?” Peter asked.
Doctor Aarts led Peter to a side chamber. He opened the thick door, and a wave of cold air hit Peter.
“A cooler?” Peter asked.
“Yes.” Doctor Aarts said. He walked in and wheeled out a low table with something long under a sheet.
Peter had a sinking guess as to what it was before the doctor pulled the sheet down to reveal the pale face of a dead man. The man had a dark bruise around his neck. He didn’t appear to be wearing any clothes aside from the sheet.
“Bring him back.” Doctor Aarts said, coolly.
Peter stepped back. “What?”
“The court band makes you a court — a god of death. Courts can create ghouls. Now do it.”
“What?” Peter said again, even though he clearly heard the doctor the first time. “I … This feels wrong. Who is he?”
“He was a murderer, thief, rapist, the list goes on. He was justly executed, and now that he’s dead, he’ll be able to give back to humanity. Bring him back.”
Peter looked at the dead man’s face, and his stomach heaved. “This can’t be right.”, He looked up frantically. “If we bring back the dead, we’re just like them.”
“You are one of them, Van Seur,” the doctor’s face hardened. His eyes were cold.. “That simple piece of metal on your arm dictates that.”
“But —“
“The courts are murdering thousands every day. You are the first Court that we — humanity — has ever had to fight back. If you don’t make ghouls, then what chance do we have? The death of all those fighting will be on your hands.”
Peter swallowed and looked at the dead man.
“Of course, if you won’t, there are others who will.”
“You?” Peter guessed.
“I know more about these ghouls than anyone on Boslic. Furthermore, I’m ready to do what needs to be done for humanity. So either bring this man back or stand aside and let someone who will do it.
Peter looked from the doctor to the dead man and thought about Iris. “I’ll do it.” He said, pushing the internal weight from his stomach. He had no clue what he was doing, but he circled to the dead man’s head. No purple leech light came from the body. He was dead, and whatever potential time he held died with him.
Peter put his hands on the sides of the corpse's face. His skin was damp and chill.
Doctor Aarts watched wide-eyed in anticipation.
Peter focused on the dead man. He willed the man to twitch, to sit and rise. He held his breath and concentrated.
Nothing.
“The band,” Doctor Aarts said. “Concentrate on the Bedorven. It’s where the power comes from.
Peter nodded and looked at the band. He imagined the purple leech light flowing from the band into the body. Where did all the time he stole go? It had to be somewhere in him, right? How did he get it back into the body, to raise it as a ghoul?
“Come on!” Doctor Aarts cried, impatiently. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.
“Get up!” Peter said. “I command you as a court! Rise!”
Nothing happened.
Peter shook his head. “It’s no use. I don’t know how.”
“Did you try everything? Try harder!” the doctor was frantic.
Peter nodded and tried again. He focused in every way. He begged and pleaded with the corpse; he shouted and demanded the corpse to obey, but it didn’t listen.
Doctor Aarts stepped forward anxiously, and a wisp of time jerked from him into Peter.
They took a break and tried again. At length, Peter decided that no matter how hard he tried or how foolish he looked, reanimating the dead man was beyond his abilities.
Peter and the doctor both sat on high chairs, pondering what the missing step could be.
“Rahashel knows how to do it,” Peter said at last, his head in his hands.
“No shit,” the doctor said dryly.
Peter didn’t like that. As a youth, he was raised to avoid vulgarities. “In the old Stalpia Library, his overseers are trained to command ghouls. If we could get in there, maybe we could learn to make ghouls.” Peter saw the strange book on the podium in his mind and forced away the intrusive alien thought. I’m in control.
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Doctor Aarts agreed.
“Do you think the commandant would let us?”
Doctor Aarts shook his head. “We’ve been planning an attack on the time Vault for too long. Court Rahashel will massacre Julleck soon. We need those tiles. Besides, maybe tiles are an integral ingredient in making ghouls.”
Peter nodded. “I need to get my friend out of Stalpia. When this has settled down a bit, we'll go to the library.”
The doctor nodded; his fatigue had returned with a vengeance. He took off his glasses and rubbed his puffy eyes.
Even Peter was starting to feel tired again.
The door to the tomb opened, and a young doctor entered. He started when he saw Peter with the doctor.
Doctor Aarts greeted him. “Doctor Zandbergen. You’re not supposed to be here until morning.”
The man looked startled. “Doctor Aarts. It is morning.”
Doctor Aarts swore. “We’ve been here all rotted night.”
Doctor Zandbergen looked at Peter. “Coach Norah is looking for you.”
Peter twitched involuntarily. “I wonder what she has planned for me today.”