“All right,” she said, trying to maintain a tone of patient deliberation. “But we’re going to prepare first.”
* * *
In the end, they cleared a space in the shop, shoving the chairs and side table into a corner, rolling up the carpet, and locking Potroast in the back room. He made his displeasure known with a series of forlorn hoots.
The satchel sat open in the center of the room. It seemed more prudent to keep the bones clear of the walls, in case it gave them an advantage if things went horribly wrong.
Viv and Gallina argued over which of them would apply the dust, but in the end, the choice was obvious, since Viv had actually fought the things before.
“So, how much should I sprinkle in there?” Viv asked in a quiet voice.
“Why are you whispering?” hissed Gallina.
Fern shrugged. “No idea. The book isn’t an instruction manual. Start small?”
“Start small,” echoed Viv.
She stood back as far as she could and tilted the bottle, tapping with her forefinger to sprinkle dust into the open satchel as though she were salting a bowl of soup.
Stepping away briskly, she held her breath and waited. All of them did.
For a long time, nothing happened.
Viv was just about to apply another dose when the satchel rustled, and they all jumped.
The leather sides flexed and contracted, as though the luggage was breathing. A delicate clatter arose from within.
Questing like pale caterpillars, the phalanges of a skeletal hand crept over the lip of the satchel, wriggling in the air until the bones of a wrist and forearm clicked into position behind them.
Viv’s hand tightened on her saber’s hilt.
Thunder rattled the windows, and wind howled hard under the eaves.
Viv and Gallina both readied their blades as the hand curved over the side to probe the floorboards. It patted around, then dug its fingertips in and pulled. The satchel tumbled onto its side, spilling an improbable number of bones onto the wood—far more than the bag should have contained.
Fern gasped and drew back, as Potroast began hoot-barking even louder.
With a gentle clatter, the spray of bones wriggled up until they formed legs, ribcage, and arms. Even as the metacarpals of the left hand slithered into place, the homunculus was reaching into the satchel to pluck out a skull, which it settled onto its shoulders. Two nubby horns rose from its forehead.
The bones were pearly and clean, and a tracery of blue lines veined them, glowing briefly before vanishing. Curls of cobalt flame licked the interior of its orbital sockets.
A long sigh escaped from somewhere in the neighborhood of its jaw. It examined its left hand, which was missing a finger, and massaged the air where its right ulna should have been.
Viv’s sword arm remained tense, but this creature was half the height of the wights she’d battled, and delicate. More than anything else, though, it didn’t smell the same. The room was filled with the scent of lightning strikes and burnt dust, but that cold odor of winter blood was nowhere to be found.
“What the shit?” breathed Gallina.
The homunculus stared at each of them in turn before settling on Viv. It tilted its head in a gesture of curiosity, then bowed. “M’lady.”
Its voice was hollow, like it was speaking down a chimney, and wholly, inexpressibly sad.
“I exist to serve.”
“I fucking knew it!” cried Fern.
22
“What are you?” asked Viv, although he was clearly no wight, so small and weaponless. Still, she didn’t lower her blade an inch.
He stared back at her with the unreadable blue flames in his sockets. “I am the Lady’s homunculus.” He invested the word with something like reverence. Or maybe fear?
“The Lady? You mean … Varine?”
The creature dropped abruptly to one knee and snapped the bony knuckles of one hand to his forehead. “The Lady,” he hissed in an eerie, echoing whisper.
“Guess that answers that,” muttered Gallina. Then, louder, “You gonna jump us or somethin’？”
The homunculus unfolded. “I … exist to serve,” he repeated hesitantly.
“Serve who?” Gallina waggled her dagger meaningfully in his direction, although Viv couldn’t imagine it would be much use against a bunch of bones with no blood to draw. Her saber at least might smash him to pieces if he decided to turn threatening. Somehow, though, she didn’t think he was going to.
He extended a hand toward Viv. “The one who wakes me,” he replied.
Fern stepped boldly toward the homunculus, and Viv held up a hand to try to stop her. “Hang on! Wait until—”
The rattkin waved her off. “He’s not going to hurt anyone, can’t you tell?” Then to the skeletal creature, “You aren’t, are you? Going to hurt us?”
He shook his head and clasped his bony fingers before him. He really didn’t seem threatening. The sepulchral voice and genteel tone sounded incredibly ancient, but something about his behavior was almost … innocent.
“What do we call you?” asked Fern, studying him with keen interest.
“The Lady calls me only Satchel.”
“She named you after the gods-damned bag?” cried Gallina, slapping her dagger into a loop on her bandolier. Her righteous indignation signaled a shift in the atmosphere.
Viv sheathed her blade as well and looked the poor creature over. “You serve me then? But also the Lady?”
Satchel’s fingers vibrated together—in nervousness? “I shall endeavor to do both, m’lady, to the very limits of my ability.”
“You have to do what I say?” asked Viv.
Fern’s expression clouded at that, and she glanced sharply at Viv.
“Yes. And also … no,” said Satchel. His nervousness increased.
“What do you mean by that?” Fern asked.
Satchel pointed at the bottle of dust which Viv still held in her off hand. “Without the dust, I do not exist. To defy the one who wakes me is to cease to be. It is the truth that binds me, and thus binds my will.”
“So, you can disobey, but if you do, you won’t wake again?” Viv examined the bottle’s contents.
The homunculus nodded.
“That’s awful,” said Fern, and the lack of colorful language spoke to the depth of her revulsion.
“Why are you here? Why aren’t you with Varine?” pressed Viv.
“I was taken.” Satchel acquired a hunted look. “Balthus stole me away from the Lady, and I was not all he stole. She will be most angry when she finds him.”
“Balthus?” asked Gallina. “Wears gray, real pale? Somebody already saved her the trouble.” She drew a finger across her neck and stuck her tongue out. “He ain’t breathin’ anymore.”
“Dead?” asked Satchel—hopefully, Viv thought. “I don’t doubt she sent a thrall to apprehend him.”
“Oh, whatever it was apprehended the hells out of him,” said Gallina.
Something nagged at Viv. “You’ve seen us before, haven’t you?”
“I have, m’lady. I did not imagine I would again.”
“You must have let the guy—Balthus—out of the cell. This explains a hells of a lot,” she mused aloud. “Still, why was he here in the first place?”