Stride Wise Phuul

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-908600-60-8
Verlag: Inspired Quill
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 456 Seiten

Walking corpses and black-market liquor: the quiet life.
Teltö Phuul, Necromancer and Library Clerk, likes his days safe and predictable.  Not for him the intrigues of the Viiminian Empire, a gothic monstrosity held together by sheer force of will.
Until the Empire's dreaded secret police come knocking. Caught in a web of schemes in the diseased heart of Kuolinako, the underground Imperial capital, Teltö can trust no-one. Not the Northern theocrats who abhor Necromancy, and certainly not the Grand Chancellor, whose iron-fisted rule has kept the old order alive that little bit longer.
When one false step means torture and disappearance, this journey will change our Necromancer forever.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Stride, Daniel

Leseproben

Chapter One
The corpse at reception was busy. Busy pretending to be busy, Teltö judged, peering at the desktop folder. Those weather reports are older than me, and it’s reading the bloody things upside down. Still, it was an improvement: last time the lich had polished paperclips for an hour. Everyone needs a hobby. Some people liked gardening. Some people counted trains. Madam Venomavat created lifelike office staff. Imperfect, of course, but the flaws only made them more human. Teltö wished the Undersecretary were as interested in her living visitors. The reception held all the appeal of a backstreet dentist: no seating, except for the undead functionary, and nothing to look at save for the obese potted cactus in the corner. A mauve carpet completed the dreary ensemble. He kicked his heels. He’d trade his entire month’s ration dockets for a magazine or newspaper. Teltö cleared his throat. “Excuse me?” Pencil in grey hand, the lich scribbled something. Teltö raised his voice. “Please?” The lich scribbled something else. “I’m a living human – class Necromancer, rank underkarl – here to see the Undersecretary?” The lich slumped forward onto the desk. A bluebottle settled on its head. Bugger this. Teltö consulted his pocket watch. He’d a double-shift at the Library this afternoon, and this appointment was eating into his lunch break. He needed to grab a cheese roll from the corner bakery too. I’ll come back tomorrow. The receptionist jerked up, as if attached to a string. “Phuul.” Teltö leapt back and thunked into the cactus pot. He cringed, even as he struggled to stop the plant toppling. The corpse nodded towards the office door. “The Undersecretary will see you now.” Teltö brushed copper hair from his eyes. He scurried past the corpse and eased the door shut behind him. A stout, grey-haired, grey-eyed woman in a greyer cardigan looked up from her desk. “Phuul,” she said, “sit.” He hesitated. “There is a seat. I told you to sit. Now sit.” Teltö Phuul obeyed. Alio Venomavat’s office looked much as he remembered it. Bookshelves leaned drunkenly against beige wallpaper; dust trickled onto reports in a dozen tiny waterfalls. Marmalade and malevolent, a feline blob blinked irritably from a corner fortress of velvet cushions. “Now, Phuul.” The Undersecretary toyed with a butterfly-in-amber paperweight. Papers, folders, and a plate of buttered toast graced her desktop. “Thus far, your service in the noble art of necromancy has been the stuff of glorious obscurity, no?” “I’m but a humble underkarl, Madam Venomavat.” The cat padded over to the fireplace, and sniffed the encrusted soot. That grate grew its own coal deposits: it hadn’t worked in years. Last time this place had a decent blaze, Teltö mused, Emperors still ruled the Empire. They ought to burn the building to the ground and start again. “Puss, puss.” The cat leapt onto Venomavat’s lap, purring like an engine. The Undersecretary scratched behind its ears. For one terrible moment, her face threatened to soften. “You are twenty-two, Phuul. Twenty-two! Despite your elder sister blazing a trail, you have chosen the path of listless mediocrity.” “I passed the Examination.” She’s wearing nail polish. Someone’s come into money. “Barely.” Venomavat let her pet settle. “You’ve subsisted these past four years as a library clerk. Slaving among the drab and dull, never poking your prodigious nose beyond Qivunako.” Teltö opened his mouth to protest. The Phuuls spent midsummer at a seaside cabin, down at Dyrtölä on the south-east coast. Salt spray and grey waves soaked his childhood memories. Ah. She means I’ve never been to the other cities. True. “Qivunako is the loveliest city in the Empire.” “Qivunako is a backwater. The smallest and weakest of the Four Cities. Remain here, and your future is assisting some lowly iron mine supervisor. Surely you hunger for greater things? To do your family proud? To escape the towering shadow of Rhea Phuul?” The towering shadow of someone who thinks the world runs on examination marks. “Not really…” “False modesty.” Venomavat grimaced. An industrial accident had twisted her mouth muscles years earlier, or so the story went. Teltö believed she was just plain nasty. “Well, Phuul, the Lesser Council and I are giving you a present. Congratulations.” She thrust a paper into Teltö’s hands. A travel itinerary. Full of typographical errors and smudges, but a travel itinerary nonetheless. A river journey along the Nhagivat. Ugh. “Yes, Phuul. You’ll accompany our very own Master Hova to Kuolinako. He is filling the empty Grand Council seat, and the Lesser Council have designated you his Native Assistant.” “But…” “Your girlfriend works in the Last Capital, no? You’ll be delighted to see her again.” Teltö would rather see things at the bottom of ponds. Where I found her. “Tuvena and I are no longer together.” “A pity; she seemed a good match for you.” Venomavat nodded. “Too good, in fact. Dyrstin gave me updates. Anyway, he works there too, so no doubt he’ll show you the ropes.” “I am sure Dyrstin would be a big help.” Teltö tapped his foot against a rug that may once have been blue. “But couldn’t…” “No,” said the Undersecretary, “we couldn’t. You will ensure Hova’s home communications remain timely and provide physical aid in mundane tasks. The Master is no longer young.” “But…” “This is an honour, Phuul,” said Venomavat. Her tone suggested nothing of the sort. “Do not disappoint.” She shuffled some papers; her eyes drifted to the buttered toast. “You may go.” “Perhaps…” “No.” The Undersecretary reached for a brass hand bell. “Next!” Teltö trudged from the office, doing the sums of corruption in his head. Even if he gave up black market chocolate and Asrak – and it’d be a cold day in the North before he did that – he’d need months to get enough bribery money together, and he didn’t have months. He looked over his shoulder. Madam Venomavat’s features were a study in better you than me and sod off, I want to eat my toast in peace. The receptionist’s face was like a granite slab. “Good news, Phuul?” “Define good,” said Teltö. •   •   • The Sun was sinking behind the Kullio Ranges as he turned into his street. Hungry shadows reached out from the grey-brick terraces, and crept over to where children played with marbles and spiders. The children shouted at each other, carefree and wild. Smoke from the Ironworks drifted across the sky like ink through water, while one by one, drab inhabitants shut drab curtains against the coming night. Dodging Unut shit on the cobblestones, Teltö hurried. His supervisor had kept him behind at the Library to correct his afternoon’s bungling, which meant he was late for dinner. Again. It’s so unfair. The Lesser Council are packing me off to Kuolinako. No wonder I can’t concentrate on work. His worst error had been shelving a former Grand Master’s memoirs under crime fiction. My supervisor has no sense of humour. Teltö arrived at the house, and hesitated. He pressed his nose to the window. No one in the kitchen. Excellent. Then the front door opened and his father emerged in his best tweed waistcoat. Shit. The elder Phuul frowned. The once coal-black hair and beard had grown grey, and the man leant heavily on his cane. “What are you doing?” “Just admiring the daffodils.” Teltö patted the window box. “Don’t mind me.” “You’re late, again.” “It was a busy day at work, Dad. There was…” Teltö’s father raised his hand. “I’ve heard. I’ve also apologised to Widow Saavi for your absence.” Oh shit. It was today. The old woman on the corner had lost her husband to a mining cave-in thirty years ago, and couldn’t afford a lich housekeeper to care for her potted rhododendrons and pre-war porcelain dolls. Teltö’s parents had badgered him into cleaning the Saavi house once a week. “As I said…” “I shall talk with you later. My supervisor from the Ironworks is retiring, and I am already late to the celebration.” He pursed his lips. “I have never asked for much, but Father Life, give me a son who is not utterly useless.” He pushed past Teltö and walked off down the street. Feeling his cheeks burning, Teltö climbed the steps. A dark, pig-tailed head poked around the doorway and grinned at him. “Don’t worry,” said Kyrmves. “I kept your dinner warm.” •   •   • Small and spotless, the dining room valued respectability above all. Special-occasion crockery, unused even on special occasions, frowned down from the wall-shelves, as if eating here were a crime. But Teltö Phuul had other things to worry about. “Well done,” said his younger sister, pulling back the sleeves on her academic robe. “A Native Assistant to a Grand Master-elect. I’m so proud.” Kyrmves Phuul meant that sincerely, Teltö knew. She was that sort of person. So infuriating. He stabbed at his corned beef and potatoes. With his mother on...