Dead to Rites (25 page)

“How can I help you tonight, sir?” He put
just
enough weight on “tonight” to convey that he wasn’t real thrilled with the idea of checkin’ anyone new in so late. His words also tasted like he wasn’t real sure he approved of Tsura’n me just in general.

Fine by me. I wasn’t gonna lose any sleep over his opinion.

“I hope you can,” I said. “I’m lookin’ for a guest. Woulda checked in within the last few days.” This woulda been easier if I knew exactly how the stiff was blending in, but… “Probably somethin’ off about him. Maybe how he was dressed, or—”

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, clearly not sorry at all. “It’s against hotel policy to discuss our clientele. Now, if that’s all…”

So I cursed once under my breath and did it the other way, juggling his thoughts and feelings until the ones I wanted—trust and compliance, mostly—landed at the top of the heap. I asked again and got what I wanted.

Yeah, some weird, sloppily dressed little fella’d come in a few nights ago, even later’n this. My new friend wouldn’t have checked him in, especially since he had a peculiar accent and smelled funny—obviously some filthy foreigner, he confided in me, makin’ me wanna sock his teeth out—but somebody higher up in management had overruled him. Guy hadn’t made so much as a peep since, ’cept on his second night, to politely request housekeeping stay outta his room.

Once I got him to spill which room that was—339, if for some reason you’re curious—I stepped back outta his head and made for the stairs.

Tsura and I ended up in a hallway with cream-colored walls and slightly scuffed red carpeting, standing next to a potted plant and staring at the mummy’s door.

“Do we knock?” she asked.

I actually wasn’t sure
what
the best way to handle this was. Bust in? Good way to attract attention, and probably ruled out a peaceful sit-down. On the other hand, if he was already in a hostile mood, did we wanna give him any advance warning we were here? I still didn’t know what he wanted, what kinda mojo he had available, or… much of anythin’ else really.

“I think…”

I dunno how I woulda ended that sentence, frankly, but it turned out not to matter.

“I know that you stand outside my door.” Voice was rough, hoarse, not real strong—like a wheezing old man, ’cept without the wheezing—but it still carried clear enough. It also spoke English with an accent I’d never heard in all my years. “You may as well step inside. We should not be so discourteous as to wake my neighbors while we decide whether or not we must do battle.”

“Well,” I said to Tsura after a minute, “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“I could.” She didn’t, though.

I tried the door, found it unlocked, and went in, Tsura followin’ close behind.

First thing to hit was the scent, both physical and spiritual. The former, a bizarre combination of spices and incense, resin and sand, unwashed sweat—from the stolen clothes, I’d expect—and a hint of decay so faint I doubt Tsura could even smell it. The latter? Magic, deep, old, but not like anything I knew. Came from all around, yeah, but also, for no good reason, from below. And I don’t mean like “the floor” or “the carpet,” but
way
below. A supernatural below.

Underworld below.

The man, if that’s even the right word, sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, watchin’ us. The shoes he’d swiped were too big, his pants rolled up at the cuff so they didn’t drag, and I could tell even with him sittin’ that his coat woulda swept the floor behind him. Not surprisin’, any of that; folks today were a bit taller than they’d been in his time. His fingers, barely protruding from his sleeves, were worn and leathery like smoked meat, and his mug looked much the same. Wrinkled, brown, rough, gaunt and bony—but like an old man who’d spent his life outside, not like somebody who’d been entombed before the Old Testament was a best-seller.

Only thing about him that really looked dead was the empty sockets; just fallen black holes where his peepers shoulda been. But in poor lighting or the shadow of a broad hat—or hell, if he just made a point of lookin’ down at his feet—it wouldn’ta been obvious.

“You don’t look like a pork rind after all,” I said.

Tsura choked.

“I do not know what this means.” When the mummy spoke, a faint gust swept across the room, carryin’ the aroma of ancient dust. Strangely, that tremulous voice was exactly as clear—no louder, no softer—as it’d been through the closed door.

“Yeah, you’re probably better off that way. Are we gonna hafta fight?”

“Did you come seeking to engage me in battle?”

“Not unless I gotta.”

“Then let us not.”

“Uh… ’kay.”

He rose, then, and bowed. Every move he made was stiff, and I coulda sworn I heard a faint crack or snap with each motion.

“I am called Nessumontu.”

“Mick Oberon. This is Tsura Sava.”

“I am honored. Although I am already passingly familiar with Tsura Sava.”

“You are?” she’n I both asked.

“Indeed. You rarely entered the structure in which I have recently traveled, but you did so a time or two, and you often passed nearby.”

Tsura frowned. “I… don’t understand. Are—were you
aware
the whole time?”

“Not all of me, and not at all times. My
ka
remained awake to experience the world and watch over me.”

“
Ka?
”

Oh. Of course. “The Egyptians believed the soul had multiple parts,” I explained. “The
ka
was sorta a duplicate of the person as a whole, and it hung around the world of the living to continue some aspects of life—and also to protect the body for the sake of the rest of the soul in the Underworld.” I stopped, glancin’ over at Nessumontu. “That more or less right?”

“It is rather an extreme oversimplification, but so long as we lack opportunity for detailed discussion of faith and philosophy, it will suffice.”

“Uh, thanks. So I’m guessin’ that’s how you picked up English, too? And why you’re not having a total ing-bing over how different this world is from the one you knew?”

“Ah… If I understand you properly, then yes, you are correct.”

“You did that on purpose!” Tsura whispered.

Well, yeah. Wanted to see how well he’d picked up the language.

“I… Look, we’re all standin’ around like a buncha mannequins. Can we sit?”

“Be welcome.” He lowered himself back to exactly where he’d been, again with the strange creaking.

Oh, right. Probably the wrapping, hidden beneath the stolen rags. Sure, it all started as fabric, but after the resins to protect it had set for a few thousand years, a whole lotta it musta been stiff as plaster.

Tsura took a chair upholstered in a shade of orange I can only describe as “rodent vomit after binging on carrots.” I planted my keister on the desk, pushin’ the lamp aside to make room.

“I think maybe you oughta tell us what’s goin’ down,” I said. “Why you’re even awake, alla that.”

“Why should I tell you this? I appreciate that you appear not to be my enemy, but neither are you my friend.”

After all the damn work I’d put into finding him, I sure as hell felt
entitled
to hear the whole rumble! But he had no way to know that, of course, and it might notta meant much to him even if he had.

“Look, pal, there’s more people’n just me gunnin’ for you, and I’m one of the friendlier of the bunch. You got no reason to believe me, but I’m interested in keepin’ their mitts offa you. So what’s it gonna hurt to sing for me? If I’m tellin’ you the truth, you’re helpin’ both of us. If I ain’t, well, I already found you. Knowin’ how you ended up here isn’t gonna make you any
more
found.”

“This is true enough,” he agreed. “I awakened fully several days ago, when my
ka
sensed the presence of something unnatural in the vicinity of my new resting place. Had it passed by only the once, it might perhaps have gone unnoticed, but it returned time and again. It felt not entirely unlike you do, Mick Oberon, but with several fundamental differences.”

“Ramona.” It wasn’t even a guess.

“You know this individual?”

“She’s one of the others comin’ after you, on behalf of someone I
really
don’t want gettin’ hold of you.”

“I do not, either. Your culture has no respect for the deceased. I will not hold either of the two of you accountable for actions you yourselves did not take, but think not that I am either ignorant of, or content with, my current existence as…
entertainment
.”

Tsura swallowed hard and blushed, obviously ashamed on her boss’s behalf. Her own, too, even though it ain’t as if she’d played any deliberate part in it. I patted her knee in sympathy, but now wasn’t the time to get sidetracked.

“Yeah. For what it’s worth, I ain’t thrilled with a lot of modern society either. But to be square, I’m a lot more concerned with these people havin’ access to your magics than with how much respect they would or wouldn’t show you.”

“As am I. This is the primary reason I returned to my
ha
and awakened myself entirely back to the land of the living.”

“The body,” I whispered to Tsura before she could ask. Then, to Nessumontu, “You mind if I ask what you can do? What spells and magics you carry? What kinda threat do you actually pose if someone snatches you up?”

“The extent and power of my
heka
I will not tell you, Mick Oberon. I have no cause to trust you anywhere near to
that
extent. Besides, they cannot force me to practice my rites and spells on their behalf if I choose not to.”

Okay, I hadda admit that was fair, at least the first part. Didn’t know how true the second half was, but I let it go.

“As to what they might do or learn, however, that is another tale.” He opened his coat, tapping a finger on the stiff and age-hardened wrappings I’d figured were there. “I was a sorcerer of some power in life, and my burial rites were appropriate to one of my standing. The spells and benedictions are many, and I cannot know how easily or how well modern sorcerers might master them.

“The preponderance of them, of course, deal with life and death. Preservation. Protection. The Underworld. Much of the
heka
has faded from them over the many years, but one sufficiently knowledgeable and skilled might use them to ward off a death that should come, or to curse the healthy with a death that should not. They might hear again the voices of those who have gone forth by day, calling them from the realm of the dead and learning secrets the living must never know. It may even be that such a one could use these spells as the basis of an even greater one, to raise the recently deceased back to life.”

“Um…” Tsura said, hugging herself.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t want anybody in this rotten town anywhere
near
that kinda mojo.”

“Understand that the worst of this is possibility, not certainty,” Nessumontu continued. “It would require one with sufficient mastery of
heka
to extrapolate from the simpler, base spells inscribed upon my burial raiments. I know not if any such even exist in this day. I have sensed enough of the unnatural beings in your city, however, to beware the possibility, however remote. It sounds as though you and I are in accord on this.”

“Better believe we are.”

He nodded—loudly, thanks to the resin. I wondered if that was somethin’ he’d picked up lately, or if the gesture meant the same three thousand years ago on the other side of the world as it did here.

Either way, he continued spinnin’ his yarn.

“I decided immediately that I could not remain in the vicinity of the bazaar.” By which I figured he meant the carnival. “If the presence I had sensed indeed represented a threat, then that would have been the first place it would resume its hunt for me. Of course, I knew nothing of this city, precious little even of this world. I had to flee, but where to?

“I opened my senses to the ebb and flow of
heka
and the energies of my past life, of ages gone by. It was those that drew me to your museum.”

Yep. I’d guessed pretty near the mark on that one, it seemed.

“The curators there are far more skilled and respectful in their treatment of the dead than those of the bazaar, though still greatly lacking. I thought to find relics of power that might aid me, perhaps even another such as I—another whose
ka
remained with sufficient might to call the remainder of its being from the Underworld—but it was not to be. No power remained to any of them, either in body or
ib
, nor were any of the grave goods possessed of useful
heka
.”

“Um, if you don’t mind that I keep asking…” Tsura began.

“The
ib
is the heart,” I said. “Part of the soul and body both. It’s removed during mummification and placed in somethin’ called a canopic jar.”

“
Those
I’ve heard of, at least.” She forced a weak smile. “Guess you can’t get into one without a
canop
ener?”

Me’n the stiff both stared at her.

“I do not understand,” Nessumontu said.

“You don’t wanna. And
you
, kid…”

“I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

“You sure you’n Pete ain’t related?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Back to the mummy. “Please go on.”

“I do not know that I’ve much more to tell. I took the opportunity to study bits of history between my time and this one, and then departed the museum. I have done little but remain here and attempt to stay inconspicuous.”

Which brought up a question I hadda ask, but Tsura beat me to the punch with a different one.

“So how come Ramona and Baskin haven’t found him? If they have that scrap of wrapping…”

Nessumontu frowned—or maybe scowled; it was hard to tell one expression from another on that mug—but said nothin’. Maybe he wasn’t too keen on the notion that somebody else had a piece of him, though he hadda know it was a possibility.

“Maybe the magics haven’t worked. I’m sure you’ve got wards or protections, of some sort, right?” I asked.

“Indeed.”

“Or maybe they got some idea where he is but aren’t sure what to do about it. Remember, Baskin thought he was gettin’ a nice, cooperative corpse with nifty occult secrets scribbled on it. If he’n Ramona have figured out that they’re dealin’ with someone who has the option of deciding not to cooperate—a potential prisoner, not a prize—it coulda gummed up their entire operation.”