They set out. The passageway was rough, the kind of tunnel built for service instead of ceremony. Bits of broken stone littered the ground. Bonedog snuffled but clearly didn’t smell anything of interest.
“Do we know where we’re going?” asked Agnes. “We want the first king, the one who bound the godmother.”
“Was it the first king, then?” asked the dust-wife.
“Oh yes. It was the godmother’s power that let him keep his dynasty going. Before that, all these little Northern witch-kings were cursing each other constantly, knocking down any clan that looked like they were getting too powerful. The godmother tipped the balance. Imagine, a godmother changing everything like that!” Agnes beamed with pride, the way she did when Finder did something clever.
“The tombs are laid out by family,” said Marra. “So presumably we’d need to just go back and back until we find the oldest one.” Her voice echoed down the passageway and sent back words: “… one … one … one…”
“Easier said than done,” muttered the dust-wife. Her chicken flapped its wings, leaving demon shadows on the wall.
The passage opened up into a larger room, littered with broken pick handles and old logs that had probably been used as rollers. Bonedog was very interested in the smells and had to poke them all.
There were three corridors leading off from the room. Marra looked from one to the next in dismay. “We need the oldest one,” she muttered. “But which one is that?”
For lack of any better ideas, they took the smallest. The ceiling was low enough that Fenris had to duck his head and the dust-wife had to hold her staff at an angle, much to the brown hen’s annoyance.
The roughness underfoot gave way suddenly to a smooth floor, and the hallway flared out. The dust-wife paused, looking around. “I believe we are entering the tomb proper,” she said.
Marra stepped out behind her and said, “Whoa.” She had seen the carved and vaulted room where her niece had been laid to rest but had not really considered the implications for the rest of the catacombs.
This was truly a palace of the dead. The ceilings vanished into darkness. The entire boardinghouse where they had spent the last week could have fit within the walls. Carvings circled the room, an endless procession of warriors and great beasts chasing each other for eternity. Racks of weapons stood against the walls, pole arms bristling like wheat, swords still gleaming dully after who knew how many years.
The center of the room held a single slab of stone, and on it, inlaid with metal, a sarcophagus. The slab had been worked into the shape of a great bear, holding the coffin on its back, its teeth buried in the belly of some unfortunate animal.
Fenris whistled softly, and the sound woke echoes like a flight of birds in the far reaches of the ceiling.
“Ostentatious,” muttered the dust-wife. She laid her hands on the sarcophagus and scowled. Marra was struck by the incongruity of it, the thin woman with her robes full of packets and string, presuming to command the sort of person that could be laid to rest in such a room as this.
“Nothing.” The dust-wife stepped back. “This ghost is long gone.”
Marra bit her lip. “What if the king we’re after is gone?”
“If he was gone, he couldn’t still compel the godmother. No, he’s around. Probably mad as hell, too.”
“That was comforting,” said Fenris. “I am comforted.” He shared a bemused look with Marra, who smiled in spite of herself.
Two doorways led in opposite directions. Fenris and Marra took one side and the dust-wife and Agnes took the other. Bonedog trotted between them, bored by the lack of new smells or motion.
“Oh,” said Marra softly, taking in the next room. “Oh, I see.” The room was much smaller, the walls holding touches of red paint. There were neither weapons nor carved warriors, only small jars ornamented with gold. The death mask on the sarcophagus was of a woman younger than Marra. Perhaps it was only the shadows, but she thought the woman’s eyes looked sad.
“His wife,” said Fenris. There were two more rooms branching off, barely more than niches. He stepped forward and looked into each one, then turned back, shaking his head to Marra. “I don’t think what we’re looking for is in there.”
“It’s her children, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He took her hand. Marra could picture the small coffins and wondered if they were more or less ornate than her niece’s. She was glad of the hand in hers. He was very much alive—him and Bonedog, who wasn’t alive but didn’t know it.