2

The twenty-page contract contained only two pieces of useful information: that one must pay before service, and that there were no refunds. The woman handed over five thousand seeds without batting an eye. “This way,” she said. “Mind remove your shoes.”

The bedroom was opulent and crowded. A hundred men in suits schemed in hushed voices. “That’s James Cowen,” a voice declared.

The woman held her chin very high. “Yes, I have brought Maestro James Cowen of the House of Dawn. Are you happy now, uncle?”

A man with a scar across his lip gave Sam a passing glance, then reached out to shake the Maestro’s hand. “Pleasure,” said James, not offering. “We are short on time. I will begin now.”

The Maestro clicked his fingers. The bed rustled. An old man with fairy-floss hair and dangling jowls tossed the sheets aside as if getting up for his nightly bladder relief. It beckoned at the granddaughter. Come.

“The dead do not breathe. You will need to get close,” said James.

The room surged. The men jostled for a position near the bed, the granddaughter sandwiched between them. The dead man opened its mouth. From where she stood, Sam could hear nothing.

“Imbeciles,” muttered James.

A roar went up. The uncle stormed out of the room with what looked like a third of the family. Two men in the pinstripe suits of the Lower Courts huddled in a corner with stacks of vellum, red pens scratching away. The granddaughter remained by the bedside, grinning and holding the corpse’s hand. She whispered a question into its ear, but the corpse did not react. Its vacant expression slackened further. She tried again to no avail. She frowned.

“It’s done,” James called out. “The remnants have dissipated.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

James nodded at his apprentice. “The cadaver has exhausted its faculties,” said Sam. “It will continue to react to external stimuli such as sound, light, and pressure until its sensory organs are deteriorated, but it can no longer speak, distinguish speech, or act in any way that resembles sentience. Legally speaking, it is now considered property.”

One of the suits nodded. “We have acquired everything we need to proceed, Miss Worsley. The estate is yours.”

“Everything we need?” The woman’s face changed from triumph to anger, and then to grief. “Could he not hear me?”

“No,” said Sam.

“But you have bound his soul.”

“That’s not how necromancy works,” said James. His words were mocking but his voice was low. “No such thing as a soul.”

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The woman eased her grandfather’s corpse onto the bed. It neither resisted nor complied. “My last words were to ask for his money,” she said. “What would he think of me?”

“The dead do not judge.”

“But I do. Release him, Maestro. Let him rest in peace.”

James clicked his fingers. His eyes sparkled with Green, and Lucia shook her head as if bothered by a fly. The corpse closed its eyes, and it seemed as if the old man had just fallen asleep. Holding his hands, his granddaughter began to cry.

The courtyard was thick with cigarette smoke. The men stared daggers into the Maestro’s back. They will do nothing. Maestros were untouchable.

A young man with a shock of purple hair pushed past them. “Maestro Cowen – I am with the Guild of Dyes – a stylist, for clothing and fashion, and interior design, and –”

James ignored him. “Leave your card with me, if you like,” said Sam.

The young man handed over a purple-tinged business card. “Please take advantage of our services. Free of charge for you, Miss.”

The streets were quiet but not empty. The ambler lanes were overflowing. Hundreds trudged along the yellow lines, carrying crates and barrels and bundles and sacks many times their size. On a Floor as high as Seventeen, deliveries were only allowed during the night.

“That was a bad idea,” said James, sounding cold and tired. “Never ask me again.”

“Yes, Maestro,” said Sam.

“Two centuries ago, this sort of job would have been our main source of income.”

“That doesn’t sound very profitable.”

James laughed. “We necromancers were once considered practitioners of the occult, agents of evil sent by the Lords Below to corrupt humanity. You know what changed their minds?”

“Free labour.”

“That’s right. We made the dead plough fields and pull wagons – for a pittance, at first, to appease the landlords and the industrialists who prosecuted us. Jackson Finley the First recruited the alchemists, one Guild at a time, to develop preservatives. Within a generation, we bankrupted them all. No one could compete with a workforce that did not eat, sleep, or ask for money. Who owns the land now, the factories, the farms?”

“The Maestros.”

“Do you know why the Lower Courts legally recognize the words of a corpse? How can they be sure I’m not the one controlling its vocal cords? The Ventriloquist, Maestro Meknes Ifran, was famous for holding executions then using the dead as stage actors. Why do they trust me to not do the same?”

Sam shrugged. It seemed natural that they would.

“To you, it must seem natural that they would. Tell me, how does raising the dead qualify one to write the law? Operate the industrial complex? Why do they trust me with such responsibility when I spend my days clicking fingers?”

“Because you are rich.”

The Maestro’s laugh turned into a coughing fit. “That’s funny. Wrong, though.”

T’Lia was waiting for them in the foyer. Her rubber gloves were drenched in infusion, her face shield scorched from acidic splatter. “You need to come with me,” she said.

James nodded without a word. They disappeared into the basement laboratory, leaving Sam to deposit the seeds and write up the transmittance. The clock struck midnight as she was putting away the files. Finally, her shift was ended.

Sam’s room was on the third floor, directly below the Maestro’s. She has a bed, a corner desk, a hardback chair, and her own bathroom. She has a view of the street below through a narrow window. Everything an apprentice needs, in one place.

She opened her letter in bed, not expecting anything. The Maestro had a habit of signing up for services using her name. All sorts of questionable propositions she has received. This one would be no different –

Dear Samantha:

I regret to inform you that your father has passed. Services will be held on the second of September in Hall #3 at the Guild of Combustion, Floor of Twelve, from 10 to 11am. You may bring up to two guests.

Sincerely,

Your Aunt.