Smythe beamed at her. ‘I didn’t at the time, of course — just more death imagery, I thought, it’s not uncommon to use animals symbolically — but after looking at your journal, I realised —’
‘She’s a therianthrope.’ The words came out hoarse. She found she couldn’t look away from his sketch. ‘That thing in her hand — it’s a therianskin. A hawkskin, maybe.’ Her finger traced the wings behind the woman’s head.
‘Yes! Exactly! Look — if you want, I can give your approximate directions. I’m something of a hobbyist cartographer myself. I’m not up to your standards, of course, but considering I’ve had little to no training —’
‘Please do.’ Ree didn’t want Smythe to get sidetracked by his own ego, not when she was so close to a breakthrough. She hesitated, then offered Smythe her own journal.
Smythe immediately shut up. ‘Are you quite sure?’ He watched her, suddenly grave.
He had been the first person to see her research journal, and he would be the first, and perhaps only, person to contribute to it. She was glad that he understood the gravity of this gesture — but then, she never would have offered it if he didn’t.
She showed him where to write his directions and sketch, if he chose. He worked slowly, carefully, a marked difference from the mad scrawl of his own notes. A pathway took shape; a fork at the end of an unusually curved tunnel somewhere in the Lich’s wing.
‘That’s it — as far as I can remember, anyway.’ He set aside her quill and returned her journal to her, still open to allow the ink to dry. ‘I must admit — I did get turned around a bit. Distracted by the plethora of different burial rites on show — and by the moaning, of course.’ He smiled wanly. ‘Must have disturbed a few of Larry’s fellows at some point.’
‘This is plenty, Smythe — thank you.’ She surprised herself with the warmth in her voice, but nobody had ever given her such a valuable gift.
‘Oh. Well, uh, think nothing of it.’ His cheeks darkened and his lips pinched in a blush.
She tried to help him with his own research in return. She wasn’t a practitioner, but she’d been raised by one, and grew up in a town full of them. She had a fairly solid grasp of the basic theory of necromancy, and had picked up some tips and tricks by sheer osmosis over the years.
But her mind kept snapping back to Smythe’s discovery in the Lich’s Wing, like a spirit tethered to a corpse. She’d scoured the crypt for grimoires on therianthropy, and found little more than rumours and anecdotes. She’d always been so certain that the information must be here, somewhere. The crypt held the accumulated knowledge of centuries from multiple civilisations.
But the Lich’s Wing had always been off-limits. He’d been a normal practitioner once — that’s how liches came to be. And he’d obviously accumulated enormous power, or he would never have survived as long as he had. Why had she never considered that he kept all the best texts for himself? And with that tableau, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume that there was a connection between therianthropy and whoever was buried in that part of the crypt.
The more she thought about it, the more it itched at her, until she had no choice but to jump to her feet. She went for her pack, refilling her rations and stuffing her journal and notes back inside.
‘Uh … Ree?’
She didn’t look up from her pack. Her hands moved with the ease of practice, tucking rations into corners and slotting her books against each other. ‘I’m going to find that tableau,’ she said. It would likely be a few days of travel all told, but she didn’t want to concern him with that. ‘Usther will look after you. Well, she’ll teach you, anyway.’ Ree shouldered her pack. ‘She’s not a very nurturing person.’
Smythe snapped his book shut and scrambled to his feet. ‘I should come with you!’ he said earnestly, feeling around him for his satchel. ‘It’ll be a jolly adventure — I’ve never got to work with a scholar as clever as you before. I rather think we could dazzle the world with our discoveries. And I have so many thoughts on —’
Ree raised her hands. ‘No.’ Her tone was clipped, firm. Smythe trailed off, eyes wide. Again, she found herself altering her tone in response; there was something about him that got under her guard. ‘The whole town is looking for you, Smythe. They’ll kill you if they find you. You’re not a necromancer yet, and even when you are, we’ll need to find a way to get the council’s protection before you can safely go back to town.’
Smythe stopped, hand on satchel. ‘But what about you? Aren’t they looking for you, too?’
‘Yes, but nobody is going to kill me or my father will kill them. It’s the stalemate our town is built on — nobody will deliberately violate it. If I ever get killed by a neighbour, it’ll be accidental.’
‘Oh. And that’s, uh — that’s reassuring, is it?’
Ree sighed. ‘Yes.’ She headed for the door.
‘Wait! Ree.’ Smythe skidded after her, putting a hand on the door.
Ree took a deep breath and then exhaled through her nose, resisting the urge to shove him aside. She liked Smythe well enough as people went, but she’d always been snappish when people told her what to do. ‘Yes?’
Smythe seemed, for once, to sense her tension. He hesitated, then raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I know far less about, well, any of this than you do.’ He swept his arm to encompass the room, and perhaps the whole crypt. ‘But — well, you know. You said nobody goes into that part of the crypt because of that Lich fellow, and he already almost killed me the other day, and of course you’re in trouble with the town because of me, and —’ He drew a shuddering breath. ‘I’m — well, rather worried that if something happens to you and you go alone, there’ll be nobody to help you.’
Ree paused, the key half-turned in the lock. Smythe watched her in open concern, his fingers tapping his sides.
He was worried about her. Her, Ree. She had been born in this place, had spent her childhood toddling though tombs with her father or helping to restore ancient shrines with her mother. Skeletons, spectres, and walking corpses held no horrors for her. Unlike Smythe, for whom this was all a new and frightening place.
Except he’d never really seemed that frightened. Not even when he’d been fending her off with an iron sarakat as if it held all the powers of a god inside it. He was, somehow, a creature of optimism and enthusiasm in the face of a world that wanted no part of him.
And though she could feel the tableau pulling on her like a hook in her gut, she had to admit that he was making sense. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’ Smythe smiled tremulously. ‘Okay. Um — okay, what?’
‘I’m leaving this — in fact, you should wear it.’ She reached under the collar of her robes and withdrew the amulet her father had enchanted for her — an ancient coin minted by a long-gone queen, now set with a cloudy gem. It was icy to the touch, and she felt its absence immediately — the little comforting chill that had always sat over her heart was gone.
She pulled it over her head and offered it to Smythe, who took it hesitantly. ‘Goodness — very cold!’
‘It’s a Neverscry amulet,’ said Ree. It felt strange to be handing it off. ‘Usther probably has one too — it stops anyone with a bit of your hair or one of your possessions from scrying on you. There’s a breakaway clasp, too — to pull it off in case of danger. It’ll also help you shield your mind, before your necromancy training takes effect.’ It wouldn’t work as well for him as it had for her — her father had tuned it to her, especially. But it would, perhaps, help.
Smythe carefully lifted the chain over his head and settled the amulet against his chest, wincing a little from the cold sting of contact. ‘So you’d like us to scry for you?’
Ree’s mouth twisted to one side. ‘Not really. But Usther can check on me if I’m not wearing it, so if anything goes horribly wrong, she’ll know.’
She unlocked the door. ‘I’ll be back in a few days.’
‘May Mercur roll in your favour,’ said Smythe, invoking one of the upworlder gods of luck.
Touched, she smiled faintly. ‘In Tombtown, we say: “Don’t die”.’
As the door clicked shut behind her, she heard him echo the words, sounding a little bit lost.