Denouement
Sister Morthag waved to Rhea and Ward as they passed her door. “Almost home,” Rhea said. “I just want to crash on the couch and relax.”
I wish I could, said Ward regretfully. It would be nice to feel physical comfort again.
“Sorry.” She pulled out her key, and then she noticed it wouldn’t be needed. “Ward, why is the door open?”
Ward shrugged, then remembered Rhea still couldn’t see him. Don’t know, he replied. I locked it when we left.
Rhea cautiously pushed the door open, then swung it wide. A horrible courtesy met her eyes. Every item in the house was boxed, sealed, labeled, and piled up in the room nearest the door. The furniture, where possible, had been dismantled for ease of transport. Where it was not possible, sharp edges were covered with padding, bound round with packaging, and taped. The couch’s cushions were stacked next to the frame. The bed slats were stacked and wrapped neatly near the frame on the floor along the wall. The space between the boxes formed a narrow walkway to the back rooms, all of which were empty. On the counter lay a single piece of paper, folded and addressed to Ward. Rhea picked it up, unfolded it, and read it aloud.
“Due to unforeseen and unfortunate circumstances, the Cathedral of Illuminism, by authorization of the curate of the Lower Taverswood chapel, has repossessed this property, previously your approved residence, for use by other corporeal hosts, a right stipulated in § 53.4b of the lease agreement (“Housing will be provided by the Cathedral conditional to continued hosting by lessee as stipulated by attached schedule [Appendix C].” ) All personal property not removed by date of vacancy will be forfeit.”
“Signed, someone whose name I can’t read,” she finished. Rhea put the paper down and looked at her and Ward’s belongings. “I keep telling you, your church sucks.”
“I am truly sorry we had to turn over the property so soon,” Curate Ceugant said, “but supply is limited, and we hoped you would be understanding.”
Ward, who with effort was now able to make himself audible, said, “It’s not just my death, by the way. I don’t know if you heard, but Fra Artem perished in the fire in Gatesmithe as we destroyed the hate cyst.”
The curate’s face fell. “The fra will be dearly missed,” he replied. “I know Curate Wallace spoke highly of him. I shall have to write a report to inform him of this unfortunate development. Did you speak to him after he died?”
“No,” Ward said, his ethereal brow furrowing, “I didn’t speak to him. Come to think of it, I never actually saw his spirit leave the area.”
“That is strange.” The curate made a note on a piece of paper near his desk. “Perhaps you can provide details on your own passing on?”
Ward shook his head, for all the good it did. “I actually hoped to find a way back to corporeality; maybe serve as a vessel again.”
Ceugant brightened up. “Wonderful!” He stepped quickly to a file cabinet and pulled out a binder from the back, blew dust off the cover, and withdrew a sheaf of pages from within.
“We don’t do this often,” he explained. “This is the form for helping a prior host recant their departure.” He laid it on the table and gestured for Ward to look it over. “It requires a procedure called ectoplasmic binding. It’s a demanding process, but one that I’m sure you’re more than capable of. Before we can begin, we’ll need you to consent to the following terms …”
As Ceugant read, Ward’s ghostly eyes slowly glazed over. He nodded at appropriate junctures, but his mind refused to attend to the details and he only caught fragments, and understood less. When the document mercifully ended and Ceugant was stumbling over how to achieve a signature, Ward politely excused himself. “I need to think it over a little, first.”
“I’ll have it waiting for you when you are ready. Just mind that you don’t get drawn off to the Pale in the interim.”
As Ward departed, he realized belatedly that nowhere in the terms read had the curate described regaining a body.
Memorandum
To: The Office of the Goetic Order and the Caretaker of the Hall of Records
From: Marweg, Goetic 1st degree
Subject: Travel Report: Nightside Green
Date: Fallowdies, Saffron 27th
On Pommedies, Saffron 22nd, we left for Nightside Green in search of rotfire, intending to obtain and return with said substance to destroy a hate cyst in Gatesmithe.
Our travels took us through Nightside Blue en route, and subsequently through Blue on our return leg. We encountered interesting forms of being, including spiritual entities, beasts, dream spirits, and other intelligences. Encounters were necessarily brief as pressing circumstances did not permit time to observe in detail the fascinating fauna that crossed our path. Notwithstanding, here follows as complete an itinerary of our journey as may be made…
“...and lying on the branch was the twin of the massive beast from before, dead and full of honey!” Rhea exclaimed.
Carrie and Cole’s expressions of wonderment warmed Rhea’s heart. They shuddered at the dizzying description of the canopy’s height. They cheered the success of climbing to the floating land. They marveled at the rotfire’s acquisition and return. They sighed in relief at the outcome of the Gatesmithe conflagration.
Rhea’s own emotions swelled in the telling, even as she relaxed to the sounds of crackling house-fire surrounding them in Rus. It felt good to be safely describing the past instead of living the heart-racing present.
“Anyways, the most annoying thing about the entire trip was coming home and finding out we had been evicted,” Rhea concluded. “It was Ward’s place, but apparently it was contingent on his being corporeal. We moved into that empty cathedral down the block.”
Carrie poured Rhea another cup of tea, then poured one for herself. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that! Will you be needing any help getting settled?”
“No, but thank you,” Rhea said. “Marweg was very kind and came by to help us shift our belongings yesterday.”
“He seems decent,” Cole seconded. “Settled and well-connected. A good person to trade favors with.”
Rhea sat back in her chair, sipping her tea. “I’m a bit talked out. What’s been going on with the parade?”
“Some good news,” Carrie allowed. “Minton House has been renovated and is being rented out, though we haven’t seen anyone move in yet. It’s a good sign that the unfortunate circumstances of its prior occupant didn’t dissuade.”
Cole cleared his throat. “It was purchased by an organization called Herrage Holdings; I’m not aware of an actual tenant yet.” He refilled his cup, and his gaze softened. “Jeremiah was a joy. I didn’t understand his enthusiasm for dancing, but it was infectious. It’s a pity that we knew him for so short a time.”
They all three raised their cups up and drank to Jeremiah. As teacups clattered on the saucers, a knock sounded at the door.
“Just a moment,” Carrie called, rising.
She returned with Angela in tow. Rhea rose to greet her. “I heard about your work in Gatesmithe,” Angela said, her face reflecting the warmth of the flaming walls. “Thank for you for your help with the city and with our Parade.”
Rhea smiled and nodded at the stack of folders in her arms. “I’m guessing you didn’t just come here to offer congratulations?”
“No, but this is good news too.” Angela’s tone was bright, but her expression was less certain. “Please, take a seat again. I’ll tell you all together.”
To Gertrude, Goetic of the 5th degree,
From Marweg, Goetic of the 1st degree
I wanted to thank you for your support on our trip to Nightside Green. I made contact with M’Baka on Nightside Blue, though I did not remember to put forth the letter of introduction you provided me. I was, unfortunately, given neither time nor opportunity to make contact with Cormac on Nightside Green due to the brief visit and sudden requirements of departure. Nor did I recall who I was to meet with in Blue. As a result, I have not suggested to any the idea of taking on the role of training for my second degree in the order. In fact, I would like to speak with you more specifically about my own considerations regarding M’Baka when you might have the time.
I have, however, reached out to another goetic you have referenced who is more local, the one named Vincent. I have confidence that I will secure a position training under him to attain my next degree, and I look forward to what he has to offer. His specialties differ from mine, being engaged primarily in demonic summonings rather than angelic, but I suspect there is much that I can learn from him.
Notwithstanding, I have exercised further and more complicated summonings in the recent past which aided us on our journey in several ways, which I shall detail below…
…
…ultimately dispatched it to pay my toll to Demogan. A pity, but sometimes one needs to make sacrifices.
Surprisingly, I find myself regretful now that it’s all done. I am very proud of what I and my companions were able to accomplish. After all, we removed an entire hate cyst ourselves, and in such a short time, too. And yet, I may have caused the last of the pushmi-pullyus in Gatesmithe to be destroyed. I dearly wanted one for my collection, and it may be that I will never have the chance.
Nevertheless, I thank you again for your willingness to assist me. I am to report to Minister Aug Fullan soon, so if I may aid you by bringing with me any messages you’d care to send, I should be more than happy to do so.
“The debt is canceled?” Rhea cried happily.
“Canceled, zeroed, completely erased,” Angela confirmed. “Maxwell has given us a clean slate and merely invoiced us for the next month’s protection as per our previous agreement.”
“That’s wonderful news!” Carrie exclaimed.
Angela’s lips smiled, but her eyes remained uneasy. “This isn’t like him. I don’t understand the philanthropy he’s giving us. There must be a catch in it somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Rhea’s joy lessened. “Do you intend to fulfill the next month’s obligation?”
Angela nodded. “Yes; I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, especially after everything we’ve been through.” She let some of the tension in her shoulders release with a heavy exhalation, and then a true smile split her face. “Carrie, do you have a bottle? Let’s crack one open and celebrate some good fortune. Gods know we deserve it.”
Marweg,
I was delighted to receive your letter. Yes, we can certainly discuss your second-degree training, and I would be pleased to assist you in attaining it. Come at your earliest convenience. Bring a companion if you prefer not to travel the Undersling alone. I look forward to our meeting.
Regards,
Vincent
Winstead slid behind the waterfall that marked Vici’s threshold. She was embraced first by the refreshing spray, then more securely by Annalise.
“Welcome home!” her roommate cried.
Winstead smiled and managed a croak in response.
“Thank Visla you’re all right,” Annalise exclaimed, stepping back to examine the returned.
“I’m fine,” Winstead assured her. “Honestly, I was concerned about you.” She gave Annalise a return squeeze. “How have things been while I was away?”
“It’s still an adjustment,” Annalise confessed as they went into the living room. “Even though we haven’t gone back to Gatesmithe, and the finances seem to be figured out somewhat, I’ve been on edge. Every time I see Minton there’s a pang of loss.” She stifled a sob.
Winstead waited in silence for a couple of minutes. Annalise wiped a tear. “I had hoped that our relationship as stewards and neighbors might have blossomed into something more, and it seemed like Jeremiah might have felt the same.” She gave Winstead a pleading look. “I think I just need things with the parade to be normal again.”
Winstead didn’t answer right away. Greta was long gone, and all of Shadow had faded with her; the nightside journey was over and Gatesmithe no longer her concern. She was struck with the realization that there was something inspiring about a mundane, stable, life. Vici’s constant dull roar comforted her, a connection to the sea with the comfort of a home and a companion. Despite the terrors of the last weeks, Winstead felt filled with a joy she couldn’t explain.
“I think it can,” she answered. “But more importantly, I think we can make it so.”
Dear Marweg,
I believe I can assist you. I have standing enough to make the offer of a potential placement in the Lattice Vitale, but as you know, the membership process requires a formal presentation. I believe your suggestion of a discussion of the Dreamt Menagerie would do excellently. Perhaps you can approach Gorgoroth to elaborate on his methods and scope of expertise? It would be a memorable departure from the more staid talks given recently. In the meantime, I will supply you with the forms required by the association.
I also sympathize with your loss. A living pushmi-pullyu (or even a preserved specimen) would have been marvelous to show. I, too, sincerely hope that all is not lost, and you find another. One can always hope, especially in the Actuality. Hold to it, my friend, for good fortune may come when least expected.
Yours truly,
Früz
The space might have been cramped for most people, but that no longer concerned Ward. He was just grateful that the Cathedral of Illuminism had a secure Noösphere connection that he could still use to safely message Cedric.
“Cedric? It’s good to hear your voice again,” he began. “Listen, I wondered whether we could coordinate our next meeting time for my sponsorship.”
“That’s no longer the arrangement,” Cedric replied. He sounded distant and a little irritated. “Your sponsorship was reassigned when I received my promotion.”
“Who did it get reassigned to?” Ward asked.
“Doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s not as though you’re eligible as a ghost.”
“Oh. Then what happens now?”
There was no answer.
“Cedric?”
…
“Cedric, even if you aren’t a sponsor going forward, can you help me finish with the second-degree Maker project? You had been excited about the possibilities, and it wouldn’t require much time from you, I hope. Contact me when you can.”
…
“Hey Cedric, sorry to reach out again, but I could really use some help reviewing the contract that’s been proffered to me about becoming corporeal again, because I couldn’t understand much of it at all. I’m not sure what I actually get out of it, and it seems pretty restrictive in what I would be allowed to do until it is fulfilled. What do you think?”
…
“I don’t know if you’re too busy or if you’re avoiding me. You don’t have to commit to anything, but I’d really appreciate getting to talk to you, even briefly. When are you available?”
…
“Come on, Cedric, this is getting ridiculous. Please respond, you know how to reach me. I’m staying with Rhea at the old cathedral in Arca.”
To the office of the Minister of Public Works, Aug Fullan of Satyrine.
Herein please find attached a full expense sheet including expenses incurred both before and during our expedition to Nightside Green as per your instructions to eliminate the hate cyst in Gatesmithe. As well herein please find a formal request that the geas laid upon Marweg, Winstead, Rhea, and Ward be lifted due to the completion of the task assigned.
Signed,
Marweg, Order Goetica, 1st degree, under the purview and jurisdiction of Gertrude
“Rhea?” Ward called.
Rhea put down the emotion leaf cutting. The mere presence of a potted plant undercut the somber stone walls and made the whole area feel a little more homelike. “What is it?” she called. When Ward focused, he could make his body partly visible, but he was comfortable enough around Rhea that he mostly didn’t bother making a special effort. For her part, she had stopped worrying about where in a room Ward might be and had taken to just speaking aloud as if to herself.
“Have you seen my project?” came the mostly disembodied voice.
“What project?” she asked.
“The one I was working on with Cedric. It’s got all the unfolding frames and aethyric projectors. It’s got to be around somewhere—we moved everything in the apartment over here.”
Rhea shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen anything like that. Anywhere else it might be?”
The only response was muttered imprecations against no one in particular. She shrugged and got back to watering the plant. The leaves are developing well.
Gabriel’s Courtyard stood aloof, a historic neighborhood distancing itself from the rest of the disreputable district strung underneath Satyrine. It had retained its name even after the eponymous Gabriel had been tried and executed for war crimes, and its retention of a distinct pre-War aesthetic was owed entirely to Our Lady's Sergeants for Pre-War Preservation. The Sarges cared for the old architecture with extreme prejudice, protecting it from falling into the cavernous depths beneath Satyrine or to the violence and decay of the rest of the Undersling.
Marweg crossed bridges and suspended streets, naive to the innate dangers around him. Arriving unscathed at the address Vincent had provided, he rang the doorbell of the well-maintained brownstone. Footsteps approached, and security latches slid free before the door was cracked open.
“Hello?” asked a short figure. They were immaculate, and wore a paisley shirt and bowtie, and an expression of pleasant exuberance.
“I came here to meet Vincent. Would that be you?” Marweg asked.
The person laughed. “No, I’m his partner, Morgan. He’s just upstairs, but please, come inside.” They opened the door wider for Marweg to enter, then closed it again, securing it with two locks and a latch.
“Can’t be too careful,” they remarked in response to Marweg’s querying glance. “The Undersling isn’t known for its charity. The people are all right, if you know how to talk to them, but they’re a bit more direct than what you see in the rest of Satyrine.” They shrugged. “You get used to it, and nobody begrudges you for taking care.”
“Oh.” said Marweg. Then, feeling something more was called for, added, “I didn’t know.”
Morgan smiled. “I daresay you’ve not come Under before?” As Marweg shook his head, they said, “I thought not. But that’s all right, it’s not for everyone. We like it a great deal, and nobody minds Vincent’s work so long as he keeps it to himself. When was your appointment?”
“About eleven,” Marweg said, checking his paper.
Morgan looked disappointed. “I suppose we can’t wait for the cookies to be done. I’ll take you up. Please, follow me.”
Morgan led him up to the third and top floor. It held a small landing and double doors that opened into a large room, the center of which was taken up by a summoning circle. Bookshelves filled to overflowing with academic and instructional texts lined the walls, and a grimoire lay open upon a pedestal in a corner that stood conspicuously clear of the circle’s bounds. Standing before the grimoire was a figure in a high-collared dark dress that flared out at the shoulders. His hair was short on the sides and rose in straight lines to about an inch above his scalp, cropped even and level at its top. A small but well-groomed moustache graced his upper lip, and his earlobes hung with oblong spacers. He glanced up and gave a loving smile to Morgan.
“Vincent, this is Marweg. He’s just arrived. The cookies aren’t quite ready yet.” Morgan exited backward, smiling broadly. “I’ll have them and tea ready when you two are done.” With that, they left the room.
Vincent strode forward and shook Marweg’s hand warmly. “Don’t mind them,” he said. “They find their joy in hosting and are always excited by the prospect of new prey.”
“Quite all right,” murmured Marweg, who could barely contain his excitement at the sight of the room.
“I was told you were hoping to study for your next degree,” Vincent said, walking back to his table and closing the book upon it. “What do you know about demon summonings?”
“Oh, that’s not really been my wheelhouse,” Marweg confessed. “I’ve been far more involved with angelic summonings up until now. Cherub breeding has also been a pastime of mine, you see, and it seemed appropriate to train my understanding in that direction.”
“A reasonable thing,” Vincent replied. “And I won’t insist on your switching from the right hand to the left. But there’s a certain skill to controlling demon summoning that I’ve found applies more generally. The practices I’ve developed for colloquy can aid your own summonings, particularly with more chaotic entities.”
“From the Red?” Marweg asked.
“Mostly.”
As they talked shop Marweg could see that his teacher’s ambitions far exceeded his own. The passion with which Vincent described encounters with demons mirrored Marweg’s enthusiasm for the pushmi-pullyu.
I think I would like working under him, even if it did mean working with demons, Marweg thought, surprising himself. And if I wanted to take things further, I could always work with someone else with a more shared focus.
“What paperwork do I need to file to get us started?”
Vincent started to clean up where they had been working. “I’ll talk to Gertrude and make sure the Hall of Records has everything you require. We can resume once those are in order.” Marweg nodded gratefully and began shelving the tomes they had been reviewing.
“Before we go down to tea,” Vincent said as they left the summoning room, “Let me introduce you to our tenants.” As they walked down to the second level, Vincent explained, “Tosin is sleeping now—he’s been working the night shifts lately at a new construction site. I’ll let him know to expect you and you can introduce yourselves later. Vess, however, doesn’t leave or sleep.” The hall began to lose opacity, taking on a shimmering, gelatinous form. The floor held their weight easily, but it shifted slightly with each step, deeply discomforting Marweg.
“Vess?” Vincent called at the door, “I would like to introduce you to my new student.”
“What is it this time?” The crabby voice echoed strangely against the ectoplasmic architecture.
“Don’t mind him,” Vincent confided. “He’s always grouchy near the first of the month.”
Soon enough, a semitransparent figure appeared in the doorway with no sound at all. “It’s not month end yet. This is the third time my work has been interrupted. Who’s this?”
“Vess, this is Marweg. Marweg, Vess. He’s a maker, though becoming a ghost has apparently been a bit of a setback for his work.” With begrudging admiration, Vincent continued, “Vess noticed that our lease agreement required tenants maintain their space in their original forms, but said nothing about original substance. Apparently, ectoplasm is a versatile material, but we’ve agreed that his personal space is not to exceed the first third of the hallway.”
“You just haven’t recognized what an improvement a fully ghostly house could be,” Vess grumped. “Once I improve my engine, we could convert the entire place to ectoplasm and take it with us to the Pale!”
Vincent smiled indulgently and turned to leave.
Marweg, who had understood none of what Vess said, got very excited nonetheless. “Wait, you’re a maker?”
“Yes,” said Vess suspiciously. “Why?”
“I have a friend who is a ghost, and a maker. It might cheer him to know he’s not the only one.”
Vess grinned. “Ah, I could put him to work! Tell him to come by. Those sorts of interruptions are welcome.”
They descended to the smell of cookies fresh out of the oven and found places set for tea. Morgan put down the newspaper they were reading and quickly enveloped Marweg in local gossip. Vincent sat quietly between, sipping his tea with a bemused smile.
When Marweg finally excused himself, any doubts he’d had going in had largely dissipated. Now this is how every goetic working session should end.
The lobby outside Aug Fullan’s office was luxurious yet austere. It seemed designed to assure visitors that they should make themselves comfortable, even while ensuring that it was not actually possible to relax.
Rhea relaxed anyway. Winstead and Marweg both seemed more anxious and excited, Marweg’s left knee bouncing like a piston. Ward had managed to become partly visible, but it was hard to look at him—not because he looked different, but because most of him still wasn’t there. A little less than half of him could be seen, but only in irregular patches. Still, enough of his face was visible that some nonverbal cues were possible when he dropped back into inaudibility.
The office door opened, and a thoughtform appeared. “The minister will see you now,” it intoned, beckoning them inside.
“I welcome you back to Satyrine in triumph.” The minister wore a wide smile, but it seemed unattached to the rest of her face. Her demeanor was anxious and distracted. The words stumbled out in short, abrupt bursts. “Your task has been completed, and you have resolved the matter to my satisfaction. The city is profoundly grateful to you.”
Aug Fullan clasped hands with each of them in turn, scarcely taking the time to make eye contact before moving on to the next person. As she let go of Winstead’s hand at the end of the line, she pronounced, “Satyrine releases you of this burden.”
They all felt a sudden clarity as the geas was lifted. The thoughtforms returned Aug Fullan to her desk.
“Is Kithri back?” she asked without looking up from her papers.
The four glanced at each other.
“We don’t know,” Rhea supplied. “She said she would catch up and never did.”
Aug Fullan’s gaze snapped to Rhea. Her stare narrowed. “She didn’t accompany you?”
“I’m afraid not.” Ward’s voice, from near the ceiling light, startled everyone.
“Then where has she been?” the minister demanded.
Marweg looked at the others helplessly. “We don’t know. I’m sorry, she never told us where she was going.”
The minister sat in stunned shock. “Very well,” she said finally. “You are dismissed. Please speak to the clerks at the desk outside to pick up your reimbursements, reward, and certificates of recognition for your aid.”
They left quietly, leaving the minister to her bewilderment.
The Satyrine records office was a well-maintained and well-constructed, if not well-organized, labyrinth of bureaucracy. Everything you wanted to find about public properties and transactions could be found here, if only you knew where to look.
Fortunately, Marweg had been here before. He helped Rhea find the stacks likely to hold documents relating to her new residence, then led Ward elsewhere to explore details about Gatesmithe.
“Have you seen all these new registrations?” Marweg asked, pulling out yet another file. “Gatesmithe properties are being sold faster than I would’ve imagined.”
“I don’t suppose we get a fee for making the properties livable, do we?” Ward quipped.
Marweg shook his head ruefully. “If only. I would dearly love to make some expansions to my menagerie.” He held up the file he’d just pulled. “See this? Another place bought by the Goetic Order. They’ve bought up easily thirty percent of the neighborhood by my count.”
“What about the others?” Ward asked, using an incompletely-substantial hand to sort through another pile.
“I can’t make head or tail of where they’re coming from,” Marweg replied. “I don’t even know half of these entity names.”
Ward peered silently over a dozen of the records they’d found before answering. “A lot of these look like shell companies. And most of them have put in for new construction permits.”
“Hey guys, look at this.” Rhea walked over with an older file, a broad smile on her face. “The cathedral is abandoned!”
“We knew that already,” Ward objected. “That’s why we moved in in the first place.”
“No, as in, it has legally been abandoned since before the War,” Rhea clarified. “I can’t find any records about what it was before, but it’s officially been in complete disuse since then.” She beamed. “We’re the only squatters; we should have grounds to make it official. I’ll have a home of my own!”
“That’s wonderful!” Marweg commended. “Well done.”
“Here’s something about the Stamwhence Parade.” Ward shifted a piece of paper. “Purchase agreement of Minton House bought by Herrage Holdings. I wonder what they’re doing to Jeremiah’s old place.”
“Ward, good to see you again,” Ceugant said. “And who is your friend?”
Ward, still a patchwork of visible and invisible parts, replied, “This is Rhea, a friend of mine. I wanted some help looking over the contract before I signed.”
“Of course, of course,” Ceugant assured him. “It’s right there, please, take a look.”
“Do you mind if I sit?” Rhea asked.
“Not at all.”
Ward and the curate engaged in small talk that quickly faded into awkward silence while Rhea scrutinized the document. A full twenty minutes passed before she finally spoke.
“This contract,” she stated, “is incredibly one-sided. I don’t think Ward could have asked for a more unfair arrangement.” She pointed to a section on the third page. “It says here that Ward would be obliged to perform service hours, but the tasks specified and the extent to which he has any say in what those tasks would be comprised of amount to little more than spiritual slave labor.” She flipped back to a previous page. “Furthermore, the guarantees for Ward are almost nil, composed almost entirely of possible transformation back to corporeality via uncertain and maybe even unproven methods. The only certainty is that Ward would provide service; he has no assurance of anything in return. That’s not satisfactory in the least.” She looked up at Ceugant.
The curate was speechless. “I… I didn’t write it, you know, I…”
“I propose that we alter some of the terms and conditions,” Rhea said, bulldozing his timidity into silence. “First, there must be more effort on the part of the Cathedral of Illuminism to ensure that the reward for Ward’s services is commensurate with his efforts during the term of the contract, in addition to a new body. Second, there must be greater assurance of the ability of the Cathedral to provide him with a new body. Third, there must be a strict definition of the nature of the tasks required of him during the contract to ensure that he is not taken advantage of by unclear or overbroad interpretations of the phrasing.
“There are probably more changes to be made to ensure that this document doesn’t merely provide a servant for the order,” she finished, “but that would do for a start. We can talk about further changes when the Cathedral has acceded to these first terms.”
Ceugant finally found his voice again. “My dear young lady, I am sure that the order has no intention of mistreating Ward in the fashion you describe. That would be tantamount to disgracing our very purpose, to mistreat a spirit that way! Still,”—and now he began to mumble—“you may have a point about these things. I’m not authorized to make the changes you suggest. However, I can submit your proposals to my superiors.”
“That’ll do for a start,” Rhea conceded. “If you need to contact Ward, you can reach him at our friend Marweg’s house.” She handed the curate a slip of paper. “We look forward to hearing from you. Let’s go, Ward.”
“Um, yeah, sure,” said Ward as Rhea stood up and made her way to the door. “Bye, Ceugant.” He waved to the dazed curate before following in Rhea’s wake.
The door opened at the first knock, and Vincent welcomed Marweg and Ward inside.
“Marweg, pleasure to see you again. And your friend, this is Ward?” he asked.
”Yes, last I checked,” Ward replied.
“Splendid,” said Vincent, “Vess is expecting you. Marweg knows where to go.”
They thanked him, and Marweg waved hello to Morgan, baking in the kitchen, as they climbed the stairs to Vess’s apartments. The hallway devolved into ectoplasm a little closer to Vess’s apartment than the last time Marweg had been by.
He attempted to knock, his knuckles sinking into the door. Pulling away with a grimace, he called out, “Vess? It’s Marweg. We met the other day? I’ve brought my dead maker friend Ward with me.”
The door swung open, and Vess peered out, adjusting his spectral spectacles.
“Yes?” he asked, and then answered himself, “Oh, right, you said you would bring him by.”
“Ward, this is Vess, maker, ghost, and one of Vincent and Morgan’s tenants. Vess, may I introduce Ward, a fellow traveler and accomplished maker.”
Ward murmured a greeting, and Vess inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“Well, I’ll leave you two here,” Marweg said. “I expect Morgan and I will be conversing in the kitchen. When you’re ready to head home feel free to interrupt us.”
As Marweg’s footsteps clomped down the stairs, the two stared at each other. “Come on inside, then, mustn’t just stand there,” Vess said, opening the door wider.
Ward entered a room and found that he could interact with everything. It was a joy to reach out and touch walls with ease, to relax his mind and sit on—rather than inside—a chair, to feel like he was almost breathing again. “How did you do this?” Ward asked admiringly. “Is this ectoplasm? Did you make this whole room?”
Vess coughed. “Nothing so spectacular, I’m afraid. My ghostmaker merely transforms the material world into spiritual versions of it. If only I weren’t so confoundedly cash-strapped, I’d be able to expand this project to the rest of the house.”
“Ghostmaker?” asked Ward. “May I see it?”
Vess led the way to a side room, likely the water closet in life, which had been remodeled into an aethyric crafting room. Intricate tools lined a shelf on the wall, each of them spectral. Spiritual counterparts of construction materials lay both scattered on the floor and tucked away in containers. In the center of the room stood an asymmetrical machine reminiscent of a microscope in shape, but with a spinning polyhedral energy source in the gap between its machine parts. It glowed with a beige flame that licked along the room—the same color, Ward realized, as where the ghostly walls in the hall bled into their material counterparts.
“I can only get it to influence about ten feet down the hall,” Vess complained. “I’ve tried more ways than I can count to increase its range, but no good so far. And I keep having to restart the engine or it overheats. I’m afraid it’s only about halfway back to where it was last at zenith.”
“Is this an active project for a degree?” Ward marveled. “This is an incredible machine.”
Vess’s tight face cracked a grin. “I’m glad you think so,” he said. “But no, I’m no longer seeking to advance in the order. I’m still in good standing, though, and as I understand it, that’s what you’re looking for, yes? A senior maker to help you toward your next degree? Marweg indicated something of that sort.”
“That’s right,” Ward replied distractedly as he tried to reverse-engineer what he was witnessing.
Vess watched his admiration for a moment longer, and his expression softened. “I could use an assistant, so it seems we have an arrangement,” he said. “I’ll submit the appropriate paperwork. Do you have a degree project in process already?”
Ward bit his lip. “I had been working with my previous mentor, Cedric, on a holographic projection exhibit for the Cathedral of Illuminism, but I don’t know what’s happened to it. It was nearly done, but I left and died and then Cedric wouldn’t return my calls.”
“Unfortunate,” Vess sympathized.
“And then the prototype disappeared when we were evicted,” he moaned. “I’d have to start it from scratch.”
Vess returned to his work. “Don’t worry about that. Perhaps it will turn up.” His head tilted to the side as he looked critically at Ward. “You have an eye for good workmanship; I think you’ll make a creative pupil. Cedric won’t return your messages?”
Ward nodded.
“Then he’s the one who made a mistake.”
Marweg’s week had been wonderful, and he felt exuberant. A certificate of achievement (which he’d framed and placed on the mantlepiece) from the minister of public works, a ceremony with Vincent and Gertrude to commend him for achieving his second degree in the Goetic Order (and receiving his own familiar, Harkuul), and now the attention of the Lattice Vitale as he finished his enthusiastic remarks on the Dreamt Menagerie.
The dignified applause washed over him in a blissful wave of joy. Smick and Früz both approached and shook his hand vigorously.
“Well done, well done,” Früz congratulated him.
“Cheers for the new member of the Lattice Vitale!” called Smick.
A brief huzzah rose indulgently from the members, and Marweg’s face split into a grin that stayed fixed for several days afterward.
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” Vess announced when Ward returned five days later. “Which would you like first?”
“How bad is bad?” Ward asked anxiously.
Vess pulled out a blueprint. “That holographic projection exhibit you mentioned… did it look like this?”
Ward took the schematic and examined it closely. It resembled his workmanship in almost all respects, except in some aesthetic choices in the finish. Under Applicant, the form bore a familiar name.
“Cedric?” he whispered.
“I’m sorry,” said Vess.
“What can I do?” Ward asked.
“Nothing. This was submitted and approved by the Order of Makers as a project for his third degree. Without your materials and notes, anything you say will be hearsay only.” His expression softened. “That horse has bolted, I’m afraid. But no matter.”
“What is the good news?” Ward asked glumly.
Vess took a deep and unnecessary breath. “I’m approved to take over as your supervisor for your second-degree project. Furthermore, I hear that you put together a remarkable transport case for a particularly virulent substance not long ago. Do you have your schematics for that?”
“Sure,” Ward said, a little confused, “but why?”
“Because I think that would qualify as a suitable replacement,” Vess said triumphantly. “All we would need is your diagrams and testimony from anyone who was present for its operation, as I understand it was destroyed after use.”
Ward’s eyes lit up. “Rhea, Winstead, and Marweg all know I did that. I talked through most of the process with Marweg while we were iterating on form and materials.”
“That’s excellent.” Vess rubbed his hands together. “Gather that, and we’ll schedule an invocation of knowledge. Now, we just need to discuss what to build next. Have you any ideas?”
Gatesmithe was barely recognizable from when they had last seen it over two weeks prior. Marweg and Spindlerieve navigated cautiously, but there was not a monster to be seen, only demolition and reconstruction.
“Seems brighter here,” Ward commented amiably. The sun shone in full force, cleansing the ruins of shadow, and a fresh breeze, only slightly contaminated with construction dust, swelled in their nostrils like a promise of a new dawn.
When they arrived at the warehouse, they found, surprisingly, that a small section of it had not collapsed, including the entrance to Winstead’s makeshift quarters. Curiosity drew them inside, and an examination of the room left no doubt that Winstead had engineered personal protections into the framework.
As they exited, Spindlerieve coiled itself as though to spring.
“What is it?” Marweg asked.
Spindlerieve unmistakably pointed at something behind him, but just as unmistakably seemed unsure of where exactly it had intended to point.
“Have you picked up a scent?” cried Marweg, almost afraid to hope.
The threads turned clockwise three times. Marweg hooted with triumph and raced forward. He soon came up against a wall, having found nothing but broken buildings and cracked cobbles, and Spindlerieve now pointed in the opposite direction. Panting a little from exertion, Marweg carefully retraced his steps back to where he had started. Spindlerieve once again pointed behind him.
“Of course!” Marweg said, slapping his forehead. He took out his multiphasic compass, checked Spindlerieve’s direction against stam and renn, and walked to where green shoots had broken through cracks in the masonry.
“Pardon me,” Marweg asked the sporophytes, “have you seen any beasts wandering through?”
“They’ve been eating my runners,” the grass answered. “But some of me has hid.”
“Where are they?!” Marweg asked excitedly. “I might be able to lead them away from you.”
“Follow where I’ve broken the stones,” the grass replied. “And please, take them away.”
After a false start Marweg found the trail of cracked masonry that led rennward, the threads beside him guiding his path. A minute later he saw a sight so beautiful his heart leaped.
Two adult pushmi-pullyus grazed carelessly on the sparse grass, which grew thicker here than it had on the main road. Each kept watch with one head while the other munched, and between them stood—oh, the glory of it all—a juvenile, not half the height of the adults. It pranced about playfully, kicking at nothing in particular. Marweg fell to his knees, overwhelmed by the sight.
He tried to call, failed to make a sound, cleared his throat noisily, and tried again.
“Excuse me?”
All six heads turned to him, and the adults moved forward until they were between him and the juvenile.
“Yes?” one head answered him.
Standing up, Marweg shook his left arm and a bunch of purple carrots appeared in one hand.††He repeated with his other hand and approached, snacks outstretched.
The juvenile, to his utter delight, jumped forward to snatch a morsel. The adults did not prevent it, and they then helped themselves. As the heads closest to Marweg ate, one of the rear heads twisted around to address Marweg. “These are agreeable. Where did you find them?”
"I’m sorry to disappoint, but I produced them myself. I keep a menagerie not too far from here where you are welcome to stay, and I can provide this and other foods. I would love to better get to know each other. Would you come with me?”
The adults stepped away and seemed to confer, while the minor took this chance to eat with both heads. The parents returned and nodded to Marweg.
“Lead us there,” one said.
Barely able to believe his fortune, and before they could change their minds, Marweg gestured, “Right, right this way then.”
As he walked the trio home, he spotted Rhea and gave a deliriously happy wave. He could already envision a small stable in his yard on the rennward side.
The grave was less impressive than the library’s records had led Ward to believe.
The headstone was in disrepair, the edges losing their battle against the ravages of time. Moss and lichen battled for supremacy across its surface, with little neutral ground left after years of forgotten conflict. Barely a handful of letters were still legible, certainly not enough to identify whose resting place this was.
At least the Confederacy of Cloisters got me this far, thought Ward. Thanks, Vess.
He stood there staring at the mound, lost in thought, until a voice behind him said, “Turn around, let me look at you.”
The voice wasn’t unkind, but it was full of authority and without the slightest doubt that it would be obeyed. Ward turned to see another ghost, a regal and martial figure by dress. Its armor presented an impregnable front, it wore a crown over its deathly pale face, and it towered over Ward by a full two heads. It gave Ward a critical gaze, then nodded as if satisfied.
“You seek my grave. Explain to me why,” it stated haughtily.
“Um, yes, are you Mysyrant?” Ward asked, overawed.
The pale head gave a fraction of a nod.
“I was given a message for you,” explained Ward. “Well, not a message per se, more of an expression . . . no, a premonition, something like that. It’s from Marra, in the Blue sun.”
Mysyrant waited.
Ward brought to mind the wordless images he’d seen and projected them as best he could to the ghost: Armies, banners of the Empress, the dead and the restless, a sense of foreboding and coming doom. The impatience of the Queen’s ambition saturated every face, every movement. As the emotions translated between the spirits, Mysyrant’s face grew sober.
“You have performed your service well,” Mysyrant said graciously when Ward was done. “Is there anything else?”
Ward started talking before he could talk himself out of it. “Actually, yes. I heard a bit about a practice called soul carving in Nightside Blue… do you know anything about it?”
Mysyrant’s eyebrows rose. “I do. It is a discipline requiring strong minds and skilled hands. Is this a thing you wish to learn?”
“It is.” Ward felt hope rise in his chest.
“Then you shall be my pupil,” Mysyrant decreed. “Your willingness to serve your lord has already been proven to me, and rewards are due for faithfulness. Come with me, and we will talk. We shall meet again in the future to begin your training.”
“You inspired me with your door to Nightside Blue, you know.”
Rhea and Marweg were in the cathedral, looking over a freestanding, inert, welded archway.
"Does this function as a gate to elsewhere as well, then?” Marweg asked. “What sun does it go to?”
Rhea grinned. “That’s the beauty of this place. It seems it can go anywhere I can establish a connection to from here. Ward helped get the magic right once the construction was completed.”
“Yes, he did the same for me. I’ve been able to collaborate with Gorgoroth as a result.”
“To each their own.”
Marweg walked behind the frame and looked through it to Rhea. “Where will you go?”
Rhea pursed her lips. “I have some things to follow up with in Satyrine, first. Afterward, though, I could go anywhere.”
†† Exiguous Appeasement