A starry-eyed corpse covered in hanging strips of linen loomed in the archway of the mausoleum. Arms outstretched, it adopted an eerily casual posture, bony fingers wrapped around the finials of the wrought-iron fence that wrapped the entry.
It was not looking at us. Though Loomis tended to boom as he walked, and Wayne’s endless fidgeting with the map scared the crows away as we approached, the corpse simply swayed there, gaze fixed on the depths of the sky above, mouth hanging open as if in awe.
As a former scholar of the church, I ought to have balked at the sight. Instead I followed with my own eyes, hoping to see whatever the dead man saw. There were stars, yes- many of which I could name with ease: Luca and Rhode and the Fat Sisters, and Old Colm and his many-braided beard- but none of these seemed to be what drew the mummy’s attention.
What it was, I may never know. Loomis broke the silence in his typical way, barking our mission out ahead of the party as if the whole world would part to the sides and make way.
“Ay, thin mint! We’ve business with the Bonecarver. Be a pal, point us the right way.”
When has this ever worked? But I was in no position to argue. Wouldn’t be for a long time. So when the corpse in the archway turned to grin at Loomis and Wayne- and me, somehow- I simply retreated into my notes. The lily can always take a little more gilding. While metal clanged and spirits howled and bones crunched and spellfire sang against stone, I kept my eyes down and returned to the journey so far.
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I made the waters of Tub’s Creek bluer and frothier. And spent more time talking about the frogs there- big and round as dinner plates, with a croak like cannon fire. I revisited the Soggy Dog and its swashbuckling patrons, making their sashes redder and their mustaches waxier and tightly curled than perhaps even my actual memory would suggest. By the time I was done counting the spots on the toadstools during our jaunt through the Fenchicken Mire, the fight had grown quiet.
Loomis was hanging upside down by one of his tiny ankles, held aloft by a thin column of twisting backbones. Wayne and the corpse were sprawled across the steps, hands lit with a mixture of captive starlight and sunrise-pink spellfire, punching each other.
I’m not supposed to intervene. Break one covenant and the gods shrug, but break two and they start barring doors left and right. But supposing the corpse could see me, perhaps there was a chance to do a little earthly good.
“Excuse my friends,” I pleaded in a voice that was much drier than I remembered. “They’re entirely too, ah, vital to respect proper funeral decorum. They’re not mourners by nature.”
“They appear to be a candle and a tractor by nature, pardon my saying so,” the corpse replied, shoving away Wayne’s face. “And neither has business with the Bonecarver.”
“I’m afraid they do. They’ve come with one of her talismans, and goods to trade for a boon.”
The corpse spat a frustrated cloud of dust and wriggled out of Wayne’s grip. Wayne was already spooling up another palmful of fire, but paused when he noticed that his enemy seemed to be talking to someone.
“Try not to bring too much attention to me, if you please,” I quickly added. “I’m a specter of the church, keeping tally of their deeds on behalf of my god. They’re better off not thinking they have an audience.”