The Conjurer's Riddle by Andrea Cremer
Suddenly, a tall shape loomed behind Grave. Charlotte reached for her dagger, but a hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around. She looked into a skull, or rather a skull painted on a face. Her hand closed around the dagger’s hilt, but not before the skull-faced man hurled Charlotte into the crowd and away from Grave. Charlotte slammed into spectators’ bodies as she fell. They stumbled away from her but otherwise paid no attention to the struggle unfolding. The dancing mesmer still held their minds captive. Charlotte landed on her side, pain shooting up her elbow when it took the brunt of her landing.
Charlotte rolled to her hands and knees, anticipating another attack. Instead, the crowd closed around her, blocking the path between her and her assailant. Staying on all fours to avoid detection, Charlotte crawled back in the direction from which she’d been tossed aside.
I need to get Grave. She scrambled through the forest of legs and feet, keeping watch for imminent danger while she sought out her friend.
When she noticed a scuffle of feet nearby, Charlotte crawled faster. As she neared the site of the activity, a figure collapsed to the ground. Behind shins and knees, Charlotte recognized Grave’s face. His eyes were closed and he lay very still. She wanted to call out to him, but she knew that doing so would be rash. She had no idea how many enemies were dispersed throughout the crowd. What Charlotte did know was that whoever had attacked saw her only as an obstacle.
But Grave was the target.
Someone crouched beside Grave’s prone form—the skull-faced man. He covered Grave’s head with a black hood embroidered with strange symbols in silver thread. Grave still hadn’t moved.
Two more figures appeared, their faces also painted rather than masked. The three strangers lifted Grave’s body and began to carry him away. Keeping low, Charlotte hurried after them.
Linnet’s lesson about mesmers had proved invaluable, and now Charlotte was glad she’d had time to learn the skill of stalking from her friend, too. For reasons unknown, Grave was being spirited away—and Charlotte was certain that if she failed to track his abductors, she would never see him again.
SIX OF THEM had come for Grave. Where they were taking him now, Charlotte couldn’t divine; she could only follow. Tracking Grave’s abductors meant crawling through a series of drainage pipes until she found herself outside the Iron Wall. She kept her focus on the cluster of skulking shadows ahead. The bayou east of New Orleans teemed with strange sounds and movements that threatened to overwhelm Charlotte with horrifying possibilities of what hidden threats surrounded her.
Despite its intimidating nature, the bizarre environs worked in Charlotte’s favor as she stalked her adversaries by following the gleam of their lanterns. The swamp swallowed noise, lowering the chances she’d be discovered. Still, it was hard going. Not enough to make Charlotte despair, but the uneven ground and constant plunging in and out of waterways—some shallow, others dropping her into waist-deep pools of brackish water—sapped her strength.
When she reached the enormous trunk of a fallen tree, Charlotte paused to consider her best route. Grave’s abductors had scrambled over the tree without hesitation, but Charlotte worried that doing the same would expose her too much, or that her swamp-slick boots and clothing would make the climb slower and more difficult, robbing her of time she couldn’t spare.
Hunching over, Charlotte kept her body low as she quickly crept along the length of the tree. As soon as she’d rounded the end of the trunk, Charlotte peered ahead and her heart sank.
They were gone. All Charlotte could see was darkness. The beacons of lantern light upon which she’d relied had vanished. Panic welled up and her stomach gave a sickening lurch. She’d made the wrong choice. In attempting to stay hidden, she’d lost the trail.
It was difficult for Charlotte to stop herself from sinking to her knees and giving in to despair, but she made her feet take one step, then another. There was nothing to do now but continue with the hope that she could catch up with Grave’s abductors. She kept walking.
The guiding lantern lights failed to reappear, but the ground beneath Charlotte’s feet began to change. No longer squelching under her footfalls, it became firmer. The disappointment of losing the trail wore on Charlotte, as did the weight of her clothes. Her stockings and boots were sodden. Her skirts clung to her thighs, knees, and shins.
Charlotte moved quietly through the dark, waiting for any light or movement that could guide her. A short distance away, she made out dim lights that wavered in the air like drunken fairies. Beyond these hiccuping luminaries she caught the ruddy gleam of torchlight as it bounced off thick, column-like trunks of cypress trees and the tangles of moss that hung from twisting branches. These lights far outnumbered the lanterns she’d been following.
The fairy lights drew near, their whimsical dance stolen once Charlotte recognized delicate candle flame. Gentle footfalls approached with the candles, and Charlotte tucked herself behind the nearest tree. With luck she could escape notice until she had a better of sense of who had taken Grave—assuming that this new group of strangers were connected to the abductors.
But Charlotte’s luck had run out. From amid the candlelight a man’s deep voice called, “Don’t dawdle hidin’ yourself away. We’ll be needin’ to speak with you, now.”
Charlotte couldn’t see the speaker, but no menace accompanied his words, and her attempt at hiding had proven futile, so she left the cover of the tree trunk and walked toward the sound of the speaker’s voice.
The candlelight grew brighter, forming a ring around Charlotte, closing until she could see faces illuminated by the subtle glow. There were at least a dozen candle bearers, both men and women and ranging in age from smooth-skinned youths to rheumy-eyed elders. Though Charlotte could have sworn the circle of light around her never broke, a man appeared within the ring. He leaned on a gnarled walking stick. The thick white tufts of his hair and beard spoke of the many years he’d seen. And though his dark skin was crinkled with age, his eyes were sharp and penetrating when they fell on Charlotte.
“I’m called Nicodemus.”
Charlotte recognized his voice as the same that had spoken before. Nicodemus said nothing further, but watched her until she answered, uncertainly:
“My name is Charlotte.”
Nicodemus offered her a gentle smile, but not a joyous one. “Charlotte. You’ve come a long way from home.”
Charlotte decided against answering. She didn’t know why she was here or who this Nicodemus and his compatriots were, but until she discerned their intentions, she had no desire to give them more information about herself than she had to.
“I am much given to wonder why you’ve come to us,” Nicodemus said when Charlotte had stood silent for several heartbeats. “And if you know what you brought along when you came.”
“I didn’t want to come here,” Charlotte said, “I’m looking for my friend.”
Nicodemus chuckled. “He’s your friend, is he?”
The line of bodies behind Nicodemus broke, parting to allow two men through. They bore a pallet that they set at Nicodemus’s feet. A prone figure lay on the pallet.
Grave!
Charlotte bit back her impulse to shout his name. Grave wasn’t moving. Despite the time that had elapsed since his capture in the city, he remained unconscious.
What could they possibly have done to subdue him?
Studying Charlotte’s face, Nicodemus said, “You’re in fear that we’ve hurt him. Or that we yet will.”
“Have you?” Charlotte asked.
Nicodemus shook his head. He crouched beside Grave, touching the tip of his twisted walking stick to the boy’s sternum. The wood began to undulate. Charlotte gasped when she realized that what she’d taken for curving wood was a black snake coiled along the walking stick’s length. The snake slithered away from Nicodemus and onto Grave’s chest, where it coiled again, resting dire
“We sent him to the Otherside for a spell,” Nicodemus told Charlotte. “There he’s gonna stay unless you have words to make us bring him back to you.”
“What kind of words?” Charlotte’s mouth was dry. The wrong answer, an unintended provocation, any misstep—and Grave might be lost to this mysterious otherworld forever.
“Truthful ones.” Nicodemus leaned on his walking stick, peering into Charlotte’s face. “Who is he?”
Charlotte had the unwavering sense that Nicodemus would know if she lied. She also suspected he already knew some things about Grave and that if she tried to hide them, it would make things much worse.
“He was lost in the woods, far from here, when I found him,” Charlotte said. “He’d come from the Floating City.”
Nicodemus nodded. “And you went to find out who he was.”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. She didn’t want to tell him more, but she doubted she had any other options.
“So I ask again.” Nicodemus smiled at her. It was a kind, but sad, smile. “Who is he?”
Charlotte looked at Grave, wondering if she knew the real answer to Nicodemus’s question.
Who is he?
The question didn’t come from Nicodemus this time. It came from all around Charlotte; the wind moving in the trees, water rippling in the swamp.
Who is he?
“He’s the son of an inventor in the Hive,” Charlotte said. “His name is Timothy.”
The snake coiled on Grave’s chest raised its head and hissed.
“You gave me some truth,” Nicodemus said to Charlotte, but his eyes were on the snake. “But not all of it. And not what matters most here.”
Charlotte likewise stared at the snake, shaken by the suggestion that it not only listened and understood human words, but could also communicate with Nicodemus.
“I . . .” Charlotte’s mouth was parched with fear. “I don’t know who he is.”
The wind rose, sighing through the trees in a way that made Charlotte feel as though it was disappointed in her.
“Tell me what you do know.” With the tip of his walking stick, Nicodemus drew a spiral in the earth. “Tell me what you believe.”
“Timothy died.” Charlotte’s heart jumped as the words left her mouth, and she realized that she never spoke of Grave’s impossible origin. She didn’t acknowledge his death. Now that she had been forced into a stark encounter with that truth, Charlotte understood that it truly frightened her. She kept it locked in the far recesses of her mind so she didn’t have to face it, because she didn’t know if she could.
Nicodemus nodded, still drawing in the dirt. He didn’t speak, and Charlotte knew she was meant to.
“His father decided to take the sickly body and make it strong again,” she said. “Make it devoid of weakness and suffering. He wanted his son back, but he wanted to keep him from ever being harmed again. He built a better body and then used the Book of the Dead to revive his son.”
A murmur trickled through the crowd behind Nicodemus.
Nicodemus bowed his head. “Grief and madness. No good comes from that mixture, no matter the intent.”
He lifted his face to meet Charlotte’s gaze. “His son did not return.”
“No,” Charlotte whispered. “I don’t know who he is . . . We call him Grave.”
Nicodemus’s laugh came so suddenly and was so loud that Charlotte startled, stumbling back and almost losing her balance.
“As true a name as any could be.” The old man had a ferocious grin.
Resentful of Nicodemus’s bizarre mirth, Charlotte said, “We started using the name before we knew about his past.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Nicodemus replied. “Names find their way to the place they belong. The boy’s name found him before you knew who he was.”
“But I don’t—” Charlotte began, then gritted her teeth.
“You do,” Nicodemus said quietly. “You know who he is . . . in a way. What you lack is understandin’.”
The murmuring became a hum, steady and full of warmth, a single note embellished by the high trills of insects and deep croaks of frogs.
Nicodemus closed his eyes and turned his face toward the night sky, silent, listening.
The coiled snake slithered off Grave’s chest, returning to wind itself around the old man’s walking stick once more. As Charlotte watched, the snake became still, and Nicodemus held a staff of twisted wood with no sign of a living creature.
Charlotte’s heart beat so furiously her pulse sent tremors up and down her limbs. Impossible things were happening here. Things she couldn’t understand.
The humming became quiet, still there but no longer commanding all to listen. Nicodemus looked at Charlotte.
“You told us what you know,” he said. “And as you spoke we heard your heart behind your words. You mean no evil. You are no enemy to us. We will not work to keep you and your friend apart, because you are his true friend.”
He swept his walking stick toward Grave.
“We’ve seen where he comes from,” Nicodemus told her. “Know what he is. These are things you must know as well. His life is tied to yours—that we have also seen.”
Questions rushed into Charlotte’s mind, crowding her thoughts.
With a knowing chuckle, Nicodemus said, “Easy, child. Let yourself take a few breaths and ask the question that’s still waiting around when the others have gone.”
Being patient enough to wait until the frenzy of questions calmed into order set Charlotte’s teeth on edge, but after a few minutes a single question stood out from its fellows.
“How do you know what he is?”
“Because I can ask those that keep the great secrets,” Nicodemus said. “Most people think those I ask have nothin’ to tell. Most people are deaf to their voices, blind to their presence.”
“Why?” Charlotte asked.
“Why is the world deaf and blind?” Nicodemus tilted his head, smiling as if he’d heard a joke he alone understood. “Because somewhere along the way it decided that everything on this earth should serve their iron god. They cut and burn and tear and bore so they can feed him. They worship by buildin’ great cities that shun the land itself. They love all that is bright and hard and loud. All that noise drowns out the quiet, the murmurs, the hushed truths that only come when you’re willin’ to listen for a long, long time and then listen some more.”
Charlotte had never heard such a bleak, harsh description of Hephaestus. Most hearers would label Nicodemus a blasphemer.
“You don’t honor the Great Forge?” Charlotte was hesitant to pursue this thread of conversation. “Or marvel at the crafts of Athene?”
“The Imperial gods have no place here.” Nicodemus spread his arms, and the sounds of the bayou became louder. “And what good are gods you can’t welcome into your home?”
“But you came into the city,” Charlotte countered. “You kidnapped him in New Orleans.”
Nicodemus made a sour face. “Only because we had to.” He turned so he could gaze down at Grave. “If we thought there was a chance that this one would come wandering into our bayou, we’d’ve waited. But he was behind the Iron Wall, and that’s where we went.”
“How could you even know about Grave?” Charlotte frowned, vexed by the nonsensical narrative Nicodemus offered. “If you’ve forsaken the French and British and live apart, why does the mishap of an inventor concern you?”
Charlotte regretted her choice of the word mishap, but it was difficult to find a word that accurately conveyed the tormented relationship Hackett Bromley had with the boy who had once been his son.
“Because he is not some automaton built to do labor or serve human masters.” Nicodemus’s face clouded with anger. “When the inventor drew upon the power in the Book of the Dead, he invited a soul from the Ot
“You think he’s dangerous.” Charlotte was so weary of that assumption.
“No.”
Nicodemus’s reply took Charlotte by surprise.
“We didn’t know how he’d come to be,” Nicodemus explained. “Or why a new soul would manifest in our world. We needed to know whether his appearance brought with it good or evil. Wanderin’ spirits in the Otherside got as many desires as the people on this Earth. Some want only the experience of life on our plane, some come seekin’ a home, but others . . . they come full of spite and malice, bent on tearin’ apart this world where they don’t belong. Such spirits cannot be ignored or left to do as they will. Wicked spirits must be wrested from the body they’ve taken and sent back to the Otherside.”
“But now you know he’s good?” Charlotte glanced at Grave’s peaceful face. He certainly didn’t look evil, and he’d done nothing she would call malicious.
“He isn’t good,” Nicodemus said, but before Charlotte could come to Grave’s defense, he continued, “Neither is he evil. He simply is.”
“And you’ll leave him be?” Charlotte asked. “You aren’t going to send him back.”
“We will not undo what’s been done.” Nicodemus walked in a slow circle around Grave. “His soul is here now. He’s part of the world as much as you or I. Killin’ him isn’t gonna right any wrong, or restore some sort of balance. That’s a blind man shoutin’ at a house cat, callin’ it a lion for fear’s sake alone. Fools’ work, that is. And hateful. Hateful acts bring the spirits’ fury. Them we won’t affront.”
Now convinced that Nicodemus meant neither her nor Grave harm, Charlotte asked, “And what about me? What should I do with him?”
“Do with him?” Nicodemus chuckled. “There’s nothin’ to be done, except to live. That’s why the spirit crossed over. To live, to be. You can be with him however it is you like, but it’s no matter of doin’.”