Page 89 of A Trade of Blood

“A careful answer!” she said. “I’m starting to get a sense about that fellow. Though after meeting your immunis, I’m given to wonder about the high folk of your Iyalets…”

I muttered some apology, then entered the sepulcher gates to follow Tauri.

The inner yard of the Armenta sepulcher featured no huge stonewood houses for storing the dead but rather used a very tall, curling breed of stooped black trees that grew all along the paths. The trees had abnormally thick branches that came coiling close to the ground,and at their lowest points they bore enormous, curious fruit—or perhaps they were seed pods, or cocoons.

I studied one growth as we passed it. It was wrought of a highly altered breed of black fretvine and had been grown in an oblong shape akin to an egg. It was about seven span long and sported a seam about the middle. Adhered to its end was a small, brass plate reading:Irphio Armenta, 971–993, Beloved Son. I will hold you again when we awaken.

We continued until we came to the newest section of the Armenta sepulcher, which was grander and more decorated than the rest: a sign of the family’s increasing wealth, I gathered. Hanging from one large, black glossy tree were three cocoons that were garlanded with bright wreaths of silver leaves. Tauri inspected the plates on their tops and said, “This is them—Lyimo, Sagma, and Gevma Armenta.” He gestured to his officers, who began unpacking instruments from their satchels. “Please remind us, Kol, how these poor folk perished.”

I summoned the memories. “For Lyimo, he was found drowned in a pond at the edge of their lands, near the forest. Sagma hanged herself. And Gevma Armenta fell from his destrier while riding.”

“Hum. We shall open the most recent one first—Gevma Armenta. The Armentas are of a sect that wash and preserve their dead, but that’s not a perfect art. And while these tavoskolis are famous for keeping out water and pestilence, they aren’t always dependable, either.”

“I see. So—why Gevma first, sir?”

“Because,” sighed Tauri, “I’d prefernotto deal with a very, very rotted corpse right from the start! I’d rather try and fucking acclimate a little.”

The Orbiis officers produced a set of pots and began to carefully paint the seams of the cocoon—or thetavoskolias Tauri had called it. There was a slight hissing as they daubed it on. Then they stepped back and waited.

The hissing continued. As we waited, I summoned my memory of the painting of the Armenta children I’d seen in their mansion. There had been the tall, grinning, arrogant Lyimo; next had been Sagma,arrayed in such glittering silks, and so keen of eye; behind her had stood Gevma, soft-faced and looking distinctly uncomfortable in his riding apparel; and last, of course, had been Castus, bedecked like a strutting pheasant—though his body, I knew, had been burned by the Orbiis after his sprouting.

Then, like a harp’s strings that had been wound too tightly, the vine cocoon began to unravel, splitting apart at the seam. Soon the top lid was free, and the Orbiis used a set of picks to pull it away.

Within sat a long, black stonewood casket, a vessel far less secure or airtight than the vine cocoon.

“Well,” said Tauri. “The lid hasn’t popped off and fungus hasn’t come pouring out. So! Let’s see what we have here…”

I helped lift the lid off the top. Instantly, we dropped it and recoiled in horror.

The top half of the casket was brimming with ancient, rotting fungal stalks, all stuffed into the corners and coiled into knots. So great was their pile that they almost eclipsed the head of the corpse within, as if they were devouring his skull. The rest of the boy’s body was remarkably intact, however—even his hands and fingernails didn’t show the usual signs of dehydration.

“By hell,” muttered Tauri. “Well! I think we can say our guess was correct—this young man was infected by the web. Sorry, dear chap,” he said softly to the boy, “there shall be no resurrection for you! Save that which is given to the trees and leaves and fauna of all this world, to be fed upon and turned into life anew. And isn’t that holy enough?”

There was a short, mournful silence.

“We will cut away the stalks to burn, and then review the body properly,” said Tauri to me. “But first, let’s open Sagma’s next to see if she, too, was infected…”

They went through the procedure again, painting her cocoon, breaking it open, and lifting the lid. Much like Gevma, Sagma’s coffin was swarming with dark, ancient fungal growths, though these had formed something of a halo about her head. Her pale, delicate face surfaced from their coils in such a fashion that she looked like shesuffered a nightmare as she slept and tossed and turned upon her pillow.

“Another victim of the web, then!” sighed Tauri. “We are two for three, then…it’s as we feared.”

I peered in for a closer look at her. Sagma, too, was remarkably preserved. She’d been a beautiful thing, a Tala girl in the full bloom of youth. Even in death, she had a look of spirited defiance to her. It made me think of Fotia immediately. No wonder Velona had taken an instant liking to her.

Yet as Tauri’s officers began to cut away the stalks from her skull, I noticed something odd.

“What’s that?” I said, pointing to Sagma’s neck.

Tauri looked closely. A thin, smooth stripe of purpled flesh ran about the dead girl’s neck, just below her jaw.

“It’s bruising,” said Tauri. “Commensurate with hanging. That is how she died, yes?”

I shook my head. “I’ve seen hanged bodies before. When they’re hanged, the rope does a great deal more damage than that. The width of the bruise, the abrasions to the skin—it is much larger, much worse.”

“Ohh. Why’ve you seen so many hangings, Kol?”

“I am Iudex. I am required to attend executions, to comprehend what I have done.”

“I…see,” said Tauri. “So. What are you suggesting?”