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CHAPTER TWELVE

“I gave the others only a thumbnail sketch of what happened when I visited my parents,” Xerak began, “because I didn’t want to have to go through this twice.”

“And he’s been gloating,” Grunwold added, checking Slicewind’s heading, then giving Xerak his full attention. “If it hadn’t been for Peg and Meg, I would have thumped him.”

Xerak’s snort showed what he thought of that, but he was too pleased with himself to take any real offense. When everyone was settled and Peg’s knitting needles were clicking away, he began.

“Something that Inehem said started me wondering—especially that bit about how my mother’s reputation might be damaged if the facts about her past came out. It wasn’t so much what Inehem said as the way she laughed when she said it. I started thinking, and realized that a good many things I had wondered about my parents’ business since I was a boy made perfect sense if, in fact, in addition to being a talented antiquarian, my mother was a fence.”

Xerak waved a hand to indicate that he wasn’t going to go into any of the things he’d speculated about, then continued. “So, after I left the House of Fortune, I stopped at a place I use as a message drop, then headed to my mother’s shop. I set up a few simple scrying spells before I arrived. Once I was inside the shop’s security, I activated them. The spells I’d set weren’t long lasting—those probably would have been blocked—but they were enough to confirm the existence of several secret compartments, just the sort of places to hide items of dubious provenance.”

Peg started to ask something, but Xerak shook his head and held up his hand to stop her.

“Ask me about the complexities later, if you really want to know. Leave it that Mom hadn’t been sloppy. Only someone who was a mage who was also a member of the immediate family could get around her protections, only—really—me.

“Armed with that information, as well as what we’d learned from Sapphire Wind, I asked my mother if she’d speak with me in private. No doubt, Mom was ready for me to ask her again for funds to assist with my search for Uten Kekui. Instead, I confronted her with what we’d learned, then added that I’d confirmed that she was obviously using the shop for transactions that were less than completely legal. While she was still poleaxed, I demanded that she help us locate Ohent.”

“Did you tell her that my parents had refused?” Vereez asked.

“No. Mom seemed to take for granted that while I was speaking with her, you were speaking with them. Anyhow, it turns out that your parents aren’t the only ones who have stayed in touch with Ohent. Seems that Ohent hasn’t quite given up the business of taking things that don’t quite belong to her. Basically, she’s a part-time tomb robber.

“Apparently, Ohent discovered that in the vicinity of a necropolis, the dreams that have plagued her as the custodian of the Bird of Ba Djed don’t bother her as severely, possibly because of the number of spells and charms that are used to protect the mausoleums from malign influences. At first, Ohent just lived nearby and took work on a landscaping crew. Then, one day, she more or less happened on a nice urn and . . .  Well, you could say my mother was kind enough to oblige an old friend fallen on hard times.”

“Do you know which necropolis?” Vereez asked eagerly.

“I do and we’re sailing that way. I picked up some maps, and Grunwold’s plotted us a course that will bring us there in a few days.”

“Wait, why would there even be a necropolis?” Teg asked. “I thought you people believe in reincarnation. Why would you have cities for the dead?”

“Because some people think they’re a good idea,” Xerak answered. “I’d say the belief in reincarnation is pretty much universal—there’s too much evidence to deny the reality. However, there are different theories as to how reincarnation works. Some common questions include how long it takes for a spirit to be reincarnated; whether anything the living do can influence how much of their previous lives the reborn remember; whether the living can assure that the reincarnated person returns in his or her own family or at least in the same region; and whether posthumous rituals can strengthen the chance that a reincarnated person will retain abilities gained in a past life. Those are a few of the most common issues.”

“Wow!” Peg said. “That’s a lot more complicated than Christianity’s debates about Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. So, how do the necropolises tie in?”

“They’re usually built by people who believe that the actions of the living can influence elements of the reincarnation cycle. In most cases, mausoleums are maintained by those who want to draw the spirit back to a region or family. They believe the used-up body still has a tenuous connection to the departed spirit.”

Grunwold nodded. “Also, those who want to try to make sure memories and abilities are retained will use the corpse as a link when they attempt to feed the departed spirit energy or whatever.”

“Whether or not there is a link,” Vereez added, “is probably the most hotly debated existential issue.”

“Existential, not theological?” Teg asked.

“What do gods have to do with it?” Vereez asked, genuinely puzzled. “Gods are for crops, moral guidance, explaining how things got started, stuff like that.”

Meg’s tone was very gentle as she asked, “So none of your religions say that gods have anything to do with whether or not a spirit is reborn?”

“Not whether,” Vereez said. “I hear some religions say that how you live might have an impact on how you’re reborn or how quickly, but most people consider that pretty primitive thinking. Rebirth happens no matter what.”

“That’s so different,” Peg said. “I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

“So, what does your religion say about rebirth?” Vereez asked, ears perked in interest.

Peg’s reply came slowly. “That it doesn’t happen. You live once, then you die and go to an afterlife. Which afterlife depends on how you lived your life. That’s basically it.”

Vereez was as astonished as if Peg had said that you only ate one meal, and that was it. Teg and Meg weighed in with examples of different human religions, including those that believed in reincarnation. Their descriptions complemented each other: Teg’s being more anthropological, Meg’s drawing on both theology and history.

Despite religion being one of the three big no-nos of polite social discussion (the other two being money and politics), the conversation remained very civil. Peg, Meg, and Teg were used to such discussions, because all three “no-nos” came up quite often at book group. For the three inquisitors, human religions were just another facet in how weird human cultures were.


Afternoon tended to be when everyone was awake, since whoever had been on night shift had gotten some sleep. Unless someone craved privacy—and that someone was most likely to be Meg, who took advantage of either the stern cabin or Vereez’s not being in use to go write—everyone tended to gather above deck if the weather was fine.

This was one such day. Peg and Vereez were finishing up a round of fencing practice.

It’s a good thing, Teg thought, that they were using wooden swords, because Vereez hasn’t stopped fighting phantoms ever since we got her out of the House of Fortune. Even so, Peg’s only just parried a few too-solid hits.

Meg and Teg were cutting up various meats and vegetables that Peg would later turn into a stir fry. The style of cooking, if not the seasoning, was known Over Where, and on one of her quick trips home, Peg had grabbed some spices, as well as soy sauce and sesame oil.

“We’re about a day out from the necropolis,” Grunwold commented from where he was overhauling the cargo winch while supervising Xerak as the young wizard reluctantly washed the deck nearby. “Anyone have a plan for how we’re going to find Ohent since Xerak’s mother didn’t have an address? Ask around for a woman we only have seen through visions—visions that show her as a pretty hot young thing, not a crazy old lady?”

“Hey!” Teg said, tossing at him the butt end of a stalk of something that looked like rhubarb but tasted more like green beans. “Watch out before you start insulting old ladies. I think all three of us are older than your parents and their friends.”

“I wasn’t insulting,” Grunwold said, obnoxious as usual. “I was being practical. Okay. Maybe calling Ohent ‘old’ would be an exaggeration. How about solidly mature, and probably definitely crazy? Remember she might not even be using the same name. My dad isn’t.”

“How many people live at the necropolis?” Meg asked, closing her journal. “Should we expect a thriving community or a few pilgrims?”

“Something in the middle,” Xerak replied, pausing to ring out his mop. “There will be enclaves where those who share a philosophical outlook are welcomed, where they can receive counseling as to how to best accomplish their goals. However, the map also shows a small town with stores, a few hotels, transportation services, and the like.”

“Ohent is more likely to be living in the town, then,” Peg said. “Or at least known there, right?”

Xerak nodded. “Known. Maybe not living in town, though, especially if she’s a tomb robber. Neither the enclaves or the town would be convenient for someone who makes her living looting the dead.”

“Ohent could have another job,” Teg suggested. All this talking about tomb robbers was making her uncomfortable. She knew plenty of people who thought that this was precisely what archeologists did for a living. “Porter. Running a small shop. Maybe working at a hotel. She could still be doing grounds keeping.”

“Mom didn’t make Ohent sound like the most responsible person,” Xerak said, “but maybe she has family who look out for her.”

“So, as to scouting for Ohent,” Grunwold said, pulling them back to the topic with the same firmness that he used to keep Slicewind on course. “How obvious should we be about who we’re looking for? Do we go around to the various shops and hotels, and say, ‘Hi, we’re looking for an o— For a woman in her middle years with a snow leopard’s head. She might be a little crazy, and she might answer to the name Ohent.’”

“You forget,” Xerak said. “We have the Spindle of Ba Djed. I’ve kept it in its enshrouding container until now, but when we get to the necropolis, I can take it out and use it to track Ohent—or at least her part of Ba Djed, which is what we really want.”

“What’s to keep you from having nightmares and going crazy?” Grunwold asked. “You’re enough of a problem already.”

Xerak shrugged. “I have a theory about those nightmares. I think that Ba Djed resents having been broken apart and stolen. If it realizes that we’re trying to help it rejoin, well . . .  I might have visions, but not necessarily nightmares.”

“That makes sense,” Vereez said, excitement and anger warring in her voice. “Why would it be nice to people who broke it into pieces? I wouldn’t be.”

And Teg, thinking of a fourteen-year-old who had had her daughter taken from her at birth, understood Vereez’s anger was about more than her recent brush with captivity.

“Xerak,” Teg asked, “do you think you’re the only one who can use the artifact for tracking? You’re certainly the most magically trained, but Vereez has some talent, and even I was able to use the sun spider.”

She trailed off, not wanting to sound as if she thought she was on par with Xerak. Xerak wasn’t offended, though.

“You have a good point, and it would be better if more than one of us could safely associate with the Spindle, if necessary.” Xerak turned to Vereez who was now putting away her practice swords. “I’ve been wondering . . .  How much magic did you study?”

“Not much, really,” Vereez said with a shrug. “I was told I didn’t have much talent, but I picked up a few things here and there, mostly from friends.”

“You were told,” he repeated, “by . . . ”

“My parents,” she said, “they said that the tests . . . ” She stopped and her ears flattened against her skull. “Oh. My parents. My parents who seem to want me to be nothing more than an ornament. My mother who was apparently a competent wizard when she wasn’t much older than I am.”

“Don’t get pissy,” Xerak said, “but I think Inehem was more than competent and, after some of the things you’ve pulled off in the last few weeks, I think that if you’d received more training, you might be almost as good as I am.”

“Almost?” Vereez’s ears perked and she put on a haughty expression. “Don’t puff yourself up, Tangle Mane. I might be better.”

“Maybe,” Xerak said in a tone that made clear he didn’t believe it.

And I don’t think this is arrogance, Teg thought. I wonder if Xerak’s magic is so powerful that it’s more a handicap than a benefit. From what he said earlier, about learning to create spells without any formal training, there’s no way anyone could have hidden his abilities from him.

Xerak was continuing. “However, I would be willing—more than—to teach you, and Teg, too. My master said that there’s nothing more dangerous than a wizard who suspects he or she has ability and messes around trying to figure out how much and what form it takes.”

“Me?” Teg said. “I mean, I managed that sun spider webshooter amulet thingie, but that’s different from being a wizard.”

“Maybe,” Xerak said again. “Maybe not. You certainly got more out of it than any of us expected. We won’t know if we don’t check. The necropolis is several days’ flight from here. Vereez already knows the basics, so she’s going to be ahead of you. Still, I might be able to teach you enough that you can at least feed mana into the webshooter thingie, as you call it, without crashing afterward.”

Grunwold, who for all his skills in other areas apparently had accepted that he was decidedly unmagically talented, huffed. “And what good will this do any of us? I mean, a couple of days’ tutoring might pass the time and keep Teg from stinking up the air with her cigarettes, but do you really expect a couple of novices to be any help?”

“I gave up ‘expecting’ a long time ago, Grunwold,” Xerak said, not bothering to hide his sadness. “Did you expect what has happened to us since you decided to go to with me and Vereez to Hettua Shrine?”

“No. Guess not. Sort of. I mean, I did find a way to help my dad.”

“Lucky you,” Xerak said, and his voice sounded far older, filled with the many disappointments he usually took care to hide. “And I’m glad. Really. I like Konnel-toh. I even like you, most of the time. But if you think the rest of our search is going to suddenly get easy . . . ”

“I don’t,” Grunwold admitted. “Maybe I just wish it would.” He tossed his head, and pointed to the mop, “Now, back to work. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re slacking.”

***

Over the next several days’ travel, Teg worked hard with Xerak until she felt confident that she could reliably activate the sun spider amulet. She remained less than confident that being able to do this made her any sort of wizard. Vereez was still boiling over with tension from her parents’ attempt to hold her prisoner, so she wasn’t in anything like a suitable frame of mind for the quiet meditation exercises that were the only way that Xerak—a novice himself not long ago—knew to test for affinity with various sorts of magic.

One of Teg’s lessons was practicing how to get the most out of the sun spider amulet’s webshooter ability.

“Since the amulet has a limited ability to convert mana into webbing,” Xerak explained, “targeting is crucial. I’ve set a target on the stern locker. Let’s see what your optimum distance for accuracy is.”

“And don’t miss and gum up my woodwork,” called Grunwold from the wheel.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Teg shouted back, then concentrated.

She was so tightly focused on the amulet and the target that she didn’t see the cat until he pounced directly on the newly created strand, then squalled in indignation when he discovered his paws were now stuck to the webbing.

“Thought!” she exclaimed in automatic indignation, then repeated more slowly. “Thought?”

Xerak was staring in blank astonishment. Grunwold turned from the wheel. Meg and Vereez looked up from their respective books. Only Peg, down in the galley doing something miraculous for dinner, wasn’t aware that something remarkable had happened.

“Thought?” Xerak repeated. “What is a ‘thought’?”

The longhaired grey-brown tabby hissed at him, clearly blaming Xerak for the condition of his paws. Teg made a quick motion that severed the strand from the amulet, then dropped the amulet into her pocket as she hurried across the deck to confirm that the new arrival was indeed her cat. Any doubt she might have had—which was minimal—vanished when Memory in all her shorthaired golden glory began weaving herself between Teg’s ankles, definitely pleased with herself.

“Thought,” Teg said to Xerak, recognizing from his inflection that the translation spell had—as was often the case with names—not translated the word, so the leonine wizard was not being suddenly philosophical, “is one of my cats. Memory, here,”—she pointed with an elbow—“is the other.”

Vereez who had, Teg suspected, been brooding, not reading, set her book down and hurried over, looking livelier than she had since they had returned from her escape.

“It is, isn’t it? I remember seeing them in your apartment. Hey, there. Remember me? Let me help you with that nasty stuff on your toes.”

Vereez made a little gesture with two fingers and something between a large spark and a tiny lightning bolt shot out and hit the clump of webbing, causing it to dry and crumble.

“Does that feel better?” she crooned. Thought, after glancing reproachfully at Teg, rubbed against Vereez’s extended hand.

“Cats?” Xerak said. “Are those animals from your world? They look sort of creepy.”

Teg reflected that, in a world where the animal-headed people seemed to draw their types from her world’s wildlife, a creature with what Xerak would see as a “person’s” head would indeed be creepy. Unlike most domestic animals, cats were definitely closer to their wild counterparts. Grey-brown, longhaired Thought was close to a lynx or bobcat. Shorthaired, golden Memory might be a little lioness or puma.

“I think they’re darling,” Vereez said. “How did they get here?”

“Good question,” Teg said, plopping down onto the deck and letting Memory climb into her lap.

“Is this the first time?” Meg asked.

“Yes . . .  Wait!” Teg stopped. “After I fell off the ledge, down to where we found the doors into the Library, when I came around, I thought they were with me. Later, they were gone, and I thought I’d been hallucinating. Since then, there have been times, especially when I was asleep, that I thought one or the other was sleeping with me—they do at home—but I put that down to sort of muscle memory or to my brain making excuses for how it feels different to sleep in a bunk on a moving ship.”

Heru soared down from his perch up on one of the crosstrees and landed on Grunwold’s shoulder. From there, he leaned down, studying the two housecats with a mixture of interest and apprehension. Thought studied him back, yellow-green eyes narrowing in predatory speculation.

“Don’t even think about it, bucko,” Teg advised him. “That xuxu isn’t one of your rubber dinosaurs.”

Thought huffed, then, tail high, strutted over to her. Teg reached out and stroked him, picking the last of the dried web goo from between his fluffy toes.

“How do you think they’re getting here?” she asked.

Meg pointed to the legs of Teg’s cargo pants, which were now lightly adorned with cat fur. “When we made our bracelets, we created the yarn by rubbing the combined fur and hair against our trouser legs. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if you inadvertently mixed in some cat hair when you made yours.”

“It’s as good a theory as any I can come up with,” Xerak admitted. “We’ve wondered over and over why people from your world came in answer to our summoning spell. As far as we know, you’re the first, at least for Hettua Shrine. There aren’t even legends about people like you. But there must be a connection, and maybe your cats are exploiting that. You haven’t been back as often as Meg or Peg, but you were recently there with Vereez.”

“Maybe that made them curious,” Vereez said, looking pleased. “Or maybe your studying magic so diligently did something they could exploit. But I’m with Meg. I bet it has something to do with the bracelet.”

Teg looked at her bracelet, wondering which of the metallic strands might be transformed cat fur. Then she shrugged.

“Well, as long as you folks don’t mind, I certainly don’t. I know time passes more quickly here than there, but I have felt bad about leaving them alone so much.”

There were general noises of welcome, and one annoyed squawk from Heru. After that, for the rest of the voyage, Though and Memory bopped in and out on some schedule of their own, vanishing with equal ease, even sometimes when they seemed to be enjoying themselves quite a lot.

“I bet your cat sitter is due,” Peg speculated, laughing. “I’ve never known a house cat whose tummy clock wasn’t set to meal time.”


Teg was in the Slicewind’s bow, taking advantage of a strong tailwind to smoke an actual cigarette, rather than her marginally more acceptable pipe, when the necropolis came into view. At first she couldn’t believe her eyes, thinking that this must be an optical illusion.

She motioned for Peg, who was knitting nearby, to come up and join her. “Do you see what I see?”

As she came forward, Peg had started singing the Christmas song, but she broke off with “way up in the sky . . . ” Her mouth hung open in an “oh” of delight and disbelief. “Meg! Stop scribbling in that book. You’ve got to see this!”

Meg closed her journal and hurried forward. She looked along the line of Teg’s pointing arm, then started. “Pyramids! A desert with ranks of dozens, maybe hundreds of pyramids!”

“What did you expect?” Grunwold asked from the wheel. “We said we were going to a necropolis.”

“In our world,” Meg retorted tartly, “there are as many different forms of burial and burial art as there are religions and cultures. However, some of the most famous are the Egyptian pyramids. This necropolis makes the grouping at Giza seem a poor example indeed.”

Xerak padded forward to join them. “This is an impressive group. My understanding is that pyramids are preferred for mausoleums because they channel and enhance energy. That makes them useful for sending messages to spirits that have not yet been reincarnated.”

“That makes sense,” Peg said, “but do they sharpen razor blades?”

Xerak blinked his large golden eyes at her. “I’ve never asked. Do they in your world?”

“Some people claim they do,” Peg said. “My first husband, Don, had a little pyramid he swore kept his razor blades sharper than if they just stayed in the box. Of course, he also claimed that if he wore a special hat, his favorite teams would be more likely to win.”

“Did they?” Xerak asked.

“Not that I ever noticed.”

“Is that the town you mentioned?” Teg said, indicating a cluster of buildings along the necropolis’s easternmost edge with a river visible beyond.

“That’s it,” Xerak said. “See down there, over to the west just a little? That would be one of the enclaves. Given the blue roof tiles and the irregularly spaced obelisks, I’d say that’s the Banquet of the Past. They’re one of the groups that claims that the proper rituals will assure that the dead remember more of their past lives and abilities. Over there is probably dedicated to the Posthumous Reminders.”

“Big place,” Peg said. “I’m guessing those Banquet of the Past people do very well, whether or not they get results. Is there a special reason this necropolis is in a desert? I ask because the culture Meg mentioned—the Egyptians—also built their pyramids in the desert.”

Vereez said, “Useless real estate. Cheaper, and no one is likely to try and take the place over.”

“If you wouldn’t mind stopping gawking,” Grunwold called, “I’m going to be bringing Slicewind down. Get to your stations. I may need you to work the sails.”

Despite his request, Grunwold didn’t need the least bit of help. He had chosen to bring them in near a sort of RV park between the edge of town and the river, where an eclectic and improbable selection of vehicles were berthed. Teg stared in fascination at a gigantic dinosaur-like creature that seemed right out of Star Wars; a stagecoach drawn by deep-chested, axe-beaked avians; a floating craft that reminded her of a banana-split dish suspended between four round, fat balloons.

In comparison to these, Slicewind looked positively normal.

After Grunwold glided their ship onto the river for a nearly splash-free landing, Vereez insisted on using her credit line to pay for a berth several days in advance. Teg guessed Vereez was waiting to see if her request was refused, which would be a good indication of how her parents felt about her recent behavior. However, if they’d cut her off, the bank branch here hadn’t been informed, and Vereez seemed to think the bank would have known.

They’d decided to live aboard Slicewind, rather than taking rooms in a hotel. Not only would this make concealing the three humans’ abnormalities easier, but people would be less likely to notice their comings and goings. On the day they arrived, there was time enough for Xerak to use some of his searching spells to check both the town itself and a couple of the closer enclaves, but the Spindle provided no indication that the Bird was anywhere nearby.

Although he made light of it, Xerak was clearly worn out by the arcane search. Not even Grunwold—who liked to tease both Vereez and Xerak for being content to take it easy when he would have been out and about—pushed Xerak to try harder. Instead, Grunwold worked off his excess energy by taking the three humans on a tour of a showier portion of the great necropolis.

Vereez stayed behind—to study, so she’d said—but really, although no one actually mentioned it, to watch Xerak as he slept, in case the nightmares Konnel had told them about manifested after his recent use of the Spindle. So far, the necropolis’s neutralizing ability seemed to be working, but since Xerak’s scrying would be actively working against the charms and wards that permeated the area, no one expected this to last.

Given Grunwold’s still-apparent crush on Vereez, Teg wondered that he didn’t object at the attention she was lavishing on the other young man.

But maybe he’s being smart. Her moods have been all over the place since we left Rivers Meet. Better to bide his time until she’s not so prickly or inclined to burst into tears.

The necropolis proved to be a fascinating place. From the air, it had seemed like Giza on a grand scale, complete with a river to double for the Nile and ample sand. Up close, the differences were more apparent. Unlike the Egyptian pyramids, most of which had long ago lost their ornamental exterior stonework, on these it was intact. However, the architects had not been interested in smooth, polished exteriors. Instead, every pyramid—no matter whether a towering structure many stories high or a small building, not much larger than Teg’s modest house—was finished with carved panels.

“Even I can see this isn’t like Egyptian art,” Peg said. “The bodies are more naturally done—not so much of that twisting of the torso, head in profile stuff—but there are similarities. I can’t put my finger on what.”

“I suspect some of the apparent similarities,” Meg offered, “may be a result of the medium. Carving into stone can limit certain elements and make perspective more difficult. Nonetheless, I do understand what you mean. They do ‘feel,’ if not Egyptian, then Middle Eastern.”

“Part of the Egyptian feeling comes from the loving detail lavished on what we’d think of as unimportant elements,” Teg offered. “Plants and animals, especially, are given so much attention. I’m reminded of Babylonian carving as well. There’s a muscular vitality to so many of the people and animals.”

Later, when Grunwold went off to buy them all cool drinks, Peg said, “I didn’t want to talk about this in front of the inquisitors, but do you think that these buildings were influenced by our world?”

“Possibly,” Teg replied, “but what about the reverse? The Middle East is where some of the oldest human civilizations grew up—and not only the Egyptians, but the Babylonians, as well, often had animal-headed creatures in their mythology. If it wasn’t for the art, I’d say it’s just a universal human desire, a need to connect to people like, but not like, us. What if that desire has its roots in a time when there were people like us but not like us who visited?”

“Very Jungian,” Meg said. “A collective unconscious memory of actual events, rather than of archetypes? I doubt we shall ever know. Even if there was a connection, it was a long, long time ago, and, for all their magic, this world’s records don’t seem to be any better than ours.”

“Wait,” Peg said. “Don’t our records go back thousands of years?”

Meg smiled gently, and Teg chuckled.

“Yes and no,” Meg said. “They do, but are fragmented.”

Teg nodded vigorous agreement. “The more we learn, the more what those ‘records’ mean is reshaped. Every culture tends to interpret those that came before in the context of their own present.”

“Got it,” Peg said. “Some of the things I’ve read about, say, what the sixties were like are completely different from my experience, but if only one issue of, oh, Life magazine survived, that would be taken as canon.”

“And that’s just a few decades ago,” Meg said. “Imagine the distortions that could happen over centuries.”


The following day, Xerak was up and eager to be about. Based on some vague dreams, he suggested they move their search into an area that was undergoing a peculiar sort of gentrification. Since the spirit was believed—known, Teg reminded herself—to be immortal, no special reverence was paid to long dead bodies. General belief (and this was belief, not certainty) held that a spirit was usually reincarnated within a century.

Therefore, if after a century had passed, a particular tomb had gone unvisited or the funds for its care had been exhausted, the area could be purchased by a new client. Sometimes the old pyramid was refurbished; sometimes it was completely razed and a new, grander structure erected in its place. This explained why, even though the necropolis had been in use for centuries, the structures were in such good condition.

The district in which Xerak slowed and finally halted was dominated by an enclave whose teachings had become unpopular in the last few decades. Grunwold called it the Enclave of Eternal Nagging. Xerak offered the more official name: Posthumous Reminders.

“Their creed goes something like this,” Grunwold said. They had, so Xerak could do his search spells without being quite so obvious, retired to the shade of one of the many gazebos that were built in the intersections of roads within the necropolis. “You die, but you’ve forgotten to tell your family something—like where the good silver is hidden or something. These people claimed to be able to help you contact the spirit of the departed—the more recently departed the better—and help you get an answer to your question. The answer comes in the form of dreams, which—if you can’t figure out what they mean for yourself—they promise to help you interpret.”

“And this is unpopular why?” Peg asked. “I’d think these people would be minting money.”

“About thirty years ago,” Vereez said, “that’s how it was. See how grand these pyramids are? Families were entombing everyone here, so they could consult them not just for the sort of things Grunwold was talking about, but about bigger issues. In some cases, it was as if the dead continued running their families, even after they should have been getting ready for their next lives.”

“I bet the field was split on that one,” Peg said. “Some people must have loved having the status quo maintained, while others must have felt as if they were in a choke hold.”

Xerak was lying on the gazebo’s stone floor, replenishing his strength with what he said was watered wine, although from the aroma, a lot of the water must have evaporated in the heat.

“That was one problem,” he said. “Another was the serious issue of whether spirits were resisting rebirth because—even if they did manage to be born into the same family—they didn’t want to risk a demotion or loss of influence.”

Meg gave a thin smile. “I can imagine how that was received. Didn’t you say that many of these enclaves base their philosophies around whether a reincarnated spirit can remember some aspect or ability from its past? They wouldn’t have liked this resistance to moving on at all.”

“Resources were getting tied up, too,” Vereez said. “People would claim that something couldn’t be sold or repurposed or whatever because the not-yet-reincarnated spirit had forbidden it. Up to that point, property rights had automatically passed at death. Now those laws were being challenged.”

“Who knows what would have happened?” Grunwold said. “In the end, though, the enclave lost influence in a single day.”

He glanced at Xerak, as if expecting he’d take up the tale, but the young wizard had put aside his wineskin, taken up the Spindle, and pressed it to his chest, his hands folded over it, both to conceal it and to channel its vital force. His eyes were half-shut but, by now, they all knew the difference between drowsing and scrying.

“Xerak could tell you better than I can how it was done,” Grunwold went on. “Some wizards were involved. I know that much. But I guess the end result is all that really matters. They demonstrated absolutely that the Eternal Nags were cheating—not always, but enough and on some really crucial points.”

“The credibility of the cult of Posthumous Reminders was shot,” Vereez agreed. “My parents . . . ” Her voice stumbled, but she went on determinedly casual. “My parents always held this up as a test case for how important it was not to attempt to alter reality to one’s own advantage.”

Peg asked, “Seems as if the Eternal Nags are doing better these days, or is this some other sect moving in?”

“They’re recovering,” Grunwold said. “The scandal is receding. The faction that survived the purge has had time to get across the idea that just because some of their members got greedy and cheated, that doesn’t mean they’re all greedy cheats.”

Xerak groaned and shoved himself up to a sitting position. “I’ve done as much as I can from here. We’ll head west and north, toward the interior of this quadrant. Then I can try again.”

As they walked, it became evident that they were moving into one of the areas where a lot of construction was going on.

“Y’know,” Grunwold said, “if my dad’s old friend has taken to reselling artifacts, this would be the sort of place I’d expect to find her.”

“Isn’t anyone monitoring the construction sites?” Teg asked, horrified.

“A monitor can’t be everywhere,” Xerak said. “And if someone . . .  Vereez? What’s wrong?”

The young woman had pulled up short and was now dropping back to where she would be partially hidden.

“I think I’ve spotted your ‘someone,’” she said very softly. “Remember how I told you that our parents’ old friend looked maybe a little familiar? She visited our house a few years ago, brought her son with her. Over there, with the head of an African painted dog, pushing a wheelbarrow. That’s him. That’s Kaj.”


Canine head or not, Kaj exuded a raw sensuality that Teg found herself reacting to. Not too old and dry, she thought, laughing at herself. I wonder if I should trade my lynx mask in for a cougar.

Kaj was working shirtless, showing off a muscular human-shaped torso whose light fur—hardly more than natural human body hair—followed the golden brown into darker browns and blacks just touched with the white of his canine head’s longer head hair.

Where Grunwold and Xerak were still somewhat gangly and boyish, Kaj was definitely a man. If several years ago, when he’d seduced Vereez, he’d exuded this same raw masculinity, Teg found it unbelievable that Inehem and Zarrq hadn’t been more careful to chaperone their daughter.

But maybe she was still their little girl to them, he just the son of someone they’d known since they were hardly more than kids themselves. It’s amazing how often it’s the ones who were wild themselves who overlook that their children are growing up.

“That’s Ohent’s son?” Xerak said, perking up. “Wow! He doesn’t take after his mother, does he?”

“He does in a way,” Peg said. “He shares with the younger her we saw in the vision a confidence in his body—and an awareness of its impact on others.”

“Do we talk to him here?” Meg asked. “Perhaps wait until he is on break? Or would it be better if we attempted to follow him back to where he’s staying and confirm that Ohent is also there? Parents and their grown children do not automatically live together.”

“Good point,” Xerak said. “I’ll track him. Grunwold looks too much like his father. Kaj might recognize Vereez, and you three with your masks would be immediately noticeable.”

“Promise not to go talk to him or Ohent without us?” Vereez demanded.

“Promise.”

“I’ll have Heru stay near you,” Grunwold said, stepping back into cover, then waving for the mini pterodactyl to come down and join them. “That way if you need to send a message, you can do so.”

No one said, “Or if something happens to you, he can let us know,” but from the rapid nods it was evident that everyone was thinking it.

Xerak didn’t protest. He started to wave the rest of them back, then stopped. He took out the small pouch in which he had been carrying the enshrouding container that held the Spindle and handed it to Meg.

“You folks had better keep this. We already know that Ohent was once an extraction agent. I don’t want to risk her trying to take this from me.”

Meg nodded and tucked the enshrouding container away. “Good thinking. Are you certain you’re not too worn out from scrying to track?”

“I’ll be fine,” Xerak assured her. “My plan is to find a nice shady spot and wait. Since Heru is staying with me, he can follow this guy—what’s his name again, Vereez?”

“Kaj.” The single syllable came out so clipped and tight that Teg didn’t think she was the only one to notice the tension in it.

“Right. Kaj. Heru can follow Kaj if his work takes him out of my line of sight. We’ll be fine. Go back to Slicewind and rest.”

They did. The humans went below, where they could take off their masks. Grunwold stayed on deck, doing things with sails and lines to pass the time. Vereez vanished into the tiny cabin near the mast that had been assigned to her and closed the door firmly behind her.

“Whoo-hoo,” Peg said softly. “A little drama there, I think. A past crush?”

“No doubt,” Meg said. “And even I am not so old as to wonder at it. This Kaj is a most elegant specimen.”

Teg only nodded, feeling silence was the best way to make sure she didn’t let even a little of Vereez’s secret slip out. She wanted a smoke badly but, although it had been agreed that she could risk taking off her mask above decks after dark, as long as she stayed below the side rails, daylight had been deemed too risky. She took out her pipe and stared at it, estimating the hours.

“Really,” Meg said, “I must admire how tenaciously you cling to an unpleasant habit. Here you have had a wonderful opportunity to give it up.”

“I don’t see you giving up coffee,” Teg said, for, as with the pipe weed Xerak had found for her, the local “poffee” was close enough to substitute for coffee, “or Peg her knitting.”

“Neither of which will contribute to our risk for lung cancer or a host of other ills,” Meg replied with an analytic calm that was worse than any more emotional rebuke. “However, we can’t have you edgy later. Perhaps you could put on that hooded sweatshirt Vereez wore upon your return and go above.”

“Thanks, Meg. I just might.”

Grunwold only rolled his eyes—a very expressive gesture with his huge brown deer’s eyes—and moved to cover her when she crept up the ladder.

“Wind’s off the starboard quarter,” he said, “so if you sit behind that sail locker, it should carry the smell away.”

She did, relaxing and puffing at her pipe. Eventually it went out and she dozed, waking only when Heru announced his return with a loud, raucous squawk through his crest, before shifting to words. Maybe because he’d had a lot of practice this trip, his speech was much clearer.

Or maybe I just understand better, Teg thought. Weird, now that I think about it. Why didn’t the translation spell simply compensate for Heru’s different pronunciations? Is it because it was important that we understand that, for Heru, this is a learned language, that he has an accent the others do not?

“Xerak says, ‘Come at twilight, where this wonderful xuxu, so wise, so elegant, so filled with clever thoughts—’”

“Yeah, right. Sure he said that,” Grunwold interrupted.

“He did! He did! I insisted on the form!!”

“I bet you did. Where are we supposed to go?”

“To the vicinity of the cottage of the groundskeeper for the enclave of the Eternal Nagging, the Posthumous Reminders. There is an abandoned cottage nearby where Xerak will wait. I have seen it, I can show. Xerafu Akeru, wizard most powerful, asks that you bring for him a change of attire—the turquoise robes with scarlet trim, he says, since he is not at his best after a long day in the dust. Also, his comb and brush, which are in the blue-dyed leather case.”

The others had emerged from belowdecks as soon as they heard Heru’s voice, and now Peg said, “I know which ones Xerak wants. Our boy’s a definite dandy lion, isn’t he? But he has a good point. We should dress to make an impression.”


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Framed