Chapter 15

Northbound

The aftermath was as chaotic as the attack on Margaux had been. While my guests had recovered quickly, my head swam. No one had helped Margaux. We’d all stepped aside and let her corner herself. I had no problem with Margaux’s fate. None. But her state…her visage of terror…her pain…her shaking…I shook my head.

My butlers attended to everyone who’d been at the scene. Broken glass rustled as it was being swept up off the cavern floor below. Mopheads slapped against stone. Architects surrounded a table with blueprints. Quills whipped across parchment, and for every scribble an objection was firmly argued. Stone masons ambled about. They touched the pillars and the columns, and they pointed at the ceiling. Their tools were heaped by the door. The kingdom seekers were marveling over Thrush.

Riggvelte approached me. “Master Hiccough, A gentleman is here to see you.”

“I’m rather preoccupied at the moment and we’ve got rare guests.”

“This guest is diamond rank.”

“I suppose I must see to this at once.”

I followed Hiccup out to the foyer. He introduced Aosh Vacomb, a pale man with purple bags under his eyes.

“Welcome to my house. Ethan Hiccough, at your service.”

“Mr. Hiccough. I’d like to speak with you somewhere private. I require absolute privacy.”

The study offered that privacy. I opened a window to free the motes of paper dust daily shed from the books. I had the time to wave in some fresh air since Aosh was slow. He moved like he had to spend time to convince his mind that he should take the next step. I had a lot of time to rewatch my memory of Thrush chasing down Margaux while Aosh crossed the study. But at last the pallid man sat like some invisible pair of hands were gently laying a corpse into a chair. His head even lolled back. My heartbeat quickened.

Aosh sighed and lifted his head. “Forgive me a moment’s rest. I forget how fast people are.”

“Are you searching for Hawkin?”

“I am not sure yet.”

“How can I help clarify things for you?”

Aosh’s eyes seemed to scan private thoughts. “The weather has been nice,” he said. “Hasn’t it?”

“It has. I’m afraid that Hawkin and I are mending a strained relationship and I am still waiting on deliveries. I’m hoping the next delivery barrels through soon.”

Aosh fell silent once more. I relaxed back and closed my eyes as the memory of Margaux’s screams rang in my mind. She had seemed small. Like a mouse in the shadow of a boulder on legs.

“I enjoy the rain,” Aosh said. “Do you enjoy the rain?”

“I do. I have fond memories of walks in the rain.”

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With the love of my life.

“I walked in the rain recently,” Aosh said. “It’s strange to be wet, isn’t it?”

“I suppose if you really stop to think about it…What is your path?—if you don’t mind me asking.”

Aosh ignored me. “I travel light,” he said. “And I travel tired.”

“You’re in need of a room, and I have a few rooms available. You’re welcome to stay for a few nights; but first, I must know who you are and why you’re here.”

“Do you know what it’s like to be tired? To feel as thin as spring frost?”

I did with my grief for Ashlee. “In a way.”

Aosh gathered his hands in his lap like his fingers were objects—parts of a glove. He cocked his head as though to listen. Gravity pulled his eyes so that his gaze fell upon the floor. He wrinkled his chin and nodded.

“Do you know what a phylactery is?” he said at last.

“You’re the necromancer,” I whispered.

“I’ve lived a long life, Mr. Hiccough. I’m ready to join the living.”

“Join the living? What do you call this? We’re already living.”

“People die. When I become a lich, I will continue living. In the grand scheme of things, if people die and I go on, who would you say is living?”

“The breadth of a lifespan does not change the fact that man or creature or monster is living, or has lived.”

“A tree grows and dies. Thus a forest grows and dies. The truth is that a forest is either constantly living or constantly dying. Not both.”

“But the tree itself has lived,” I said.

“Has it? When autumn crashes into the earth so hard that the leaves are shocked of their green, that is dying. When bark forms, that is dying. When branches cannot carry the burden of winter snow and ice, they break; that is also dying.”

“It’s a matter of exchange. The tree hibernates with a store of energy.”

“You miss the point. Life and death happens every single moment for that tree. Life and death are the same singular thing. It is the arising of form. Our tree is the form.”

“If you become immortal,” I said, “then you too will be in a perpetual life-death.”

“That is truly living. A form which the cycle of life-death cannot touch.”

“I vehemently disagree. You misunderstand life.”

“You study beer. I study life-death.”

For the next few moments, motes of paper dust glowed in the shafts of sunlight. The shelves creaked. When a wind came in, several pages crinkled. I laid a paper weight on an open book.

Aosh changed the subject entirely. As though fresh off of a pot of coffee, he spoke fluidly and with interest. He asked about my success as a gold rank Brewer. He celebrated that success. At the end of it all, he brought up his desire for an ethereal plane to act as a phylactery for him. Alas, I could not help the man. He asked if I could escort him to the stables a few blocks away from the city center.

I employed Riggvelte and a few butlers from his team to come with us. The closer we got, the more often we maneuvered around horse manure.

The stables were spacious and on the perimeter of a city park. There was a crowd of people and a herd of horses. More horses than stalls. More people than horses. I recognized a few faces, as Aosh led us down a row of stalls.

We arrived at a roomy stall with a gray horse.

“I cannot stay long,” Aosh said. “My presence here is illegal as I’m sure you know.”

“You’re a simple traveler. I’d have to report you if you were a necromancer.”

“Of course.” Aosh entered the stall. “The stable is busy.” He mounted his horse like his legs were deadweight. I took the reins and led horse and man out of the stable and by the throng.

We arrived at the road. I said, “Farewell.”

“I will.”

His horse trotted off northbound.

Someone in the crowd mentioned Hawkin. Then others mentioned him.

The stableman asked everyone to hush. “Let me get this straight; now I don’t know much about this Hawkin fellow, but all of you are going north? Every one of you?”

The more faces I saw, the more I recognized. I’d spoken with many of them before: Alchemists, scholars, grievers and bereaved, and even a few Brewers. One of them, Mikil Dawlwish, was silver rank.