NONE SO VILE

03: Wrong and Ruin

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

           “I truly ought to prepare you for what you are walking into here." The badger's bejewelled outfit rustled and clinked auspiciously as they walked the palace halls, a stark contrast to the silent breaths of Alabaster's robes.

           “Forewarned is forearmed, preparation has always been a good friend to me." 

The badger laughed, unconvincingly. His name was Jules-Dorian de Maurice-Rennaire, and he was a Prince of Rennaire. He was the oldest of two princes, but only a step-son of royalty, and so the throne would pass over him to go instead to his younger brother Gabriel.

“I mean by God's vengeance Alabaster, where have you been?" Jules whined. They climbed a butterfly staircase, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of their boots. Formless autumn light streamed in through the tall palace windows, bouncing off the marbled walls and silver trim, bathing the palace interior in an apathetic grey light. “Four days is much too long to ignore a King." The dandy badger clapped Alabaster on the back. “You know my father loves you, you must know it, tell me you know it." 

Alabaster cocked an eyebrow. “I am a big boy, my prince, you need not worry… I can take my medicine." 

“But what medicine!" Jules winced. “As I say, my father loves you, we all do, but with you gone… you know how Vardé and La Valette are! He was utterly defenceless against those two whispering away in his ear, especially with this bloody Valoisier business." 

“Valoisier?" 

“Oh. Some upstart general in the eastern army who thinks he's the next Kazmar the Great. All in due time." Jules waved his paw in the air, muttering to himself. “I suspect you will simply have to accept your flogging and move on, yes, that's the way, take your medicine. Hells, you know the reason I came to fetch you myself was Vardé had father halfway convinced to send the bloody Gardes du Corps Impérials after you!" His voice dropped into a hush. “I mean, can you imagine the gossip, Alabaster? The King's royal advisor marched through the palace like a fucking criminal?" 

“Perish the thought," Alabaster replied dryly. He found the mental image rather amusing. The nobility would absolutely feast on those rumours. The gossip alone would sustain them a good fortnight at least. It was no secret the Rennairan court despised Alabaster. Men born into privilege had no imagination, they simply couldn't imagine why in a thousand years the King of Rennaire would invite a foreign heretic into his house before them. They hated how much power Alabaster wielded, hated how much he made them squirm, and especially hated that he didn't have fur all over his body.

“I'll admit I let myself get… lost in my work," Alabaster said, the two of them stopping before an obscenely large set of double doors. “But Jules, it is good you came for me. There is something I must speak with the King about… privately." Alabaster leaned in. “I first ignored your father's summons because someone in this palace murdered me. Poison. I crawled out of a grave to be here."

Jules hesitated. “I see. That is… certainly troubling." He sucked his teeth, glancing at the giant doors. They were nearly three times higher than the tallest man in the city, inlaid with bronze and silver carvings. “Alabaster, I advise you to keep this news between us. If only for the time being." 

Alabaster blinked in disbelief. “My Prince, perhaps you misheard me. Someone has tried to assassinate the King's advisor." The murderous urges bubbled up in Alabaster's chest. He thought of Bellamy, his poor bird, stuck through with a knife. Doesn't matter when some dirty foreigner dies, does it? He quieted the acid voice – Prince Jules had always been fair to him. 

“And that's awful," Jules said, raising his paws. “But my father is rather volatile right now. Vardé and La Valette have been in there practically night and day, a hundred advisors swirling around them and working him into an absolute state. The riots in the streets, the royal effigies the people keep burning, and now this fucking General… my father is known to panic, that is good for nobody, least of all you." 

“Jules…" 

“No, Alabaster," the Prince's voice was suddenly firm. “Do not mention it. We will go inside, politely be scolded, and take our leave. In the coming days, you and I can consider our options."

It was only four days, how much could things have changed? He sighed as the realisation began to dawn. One of them could be the culprit. Hell, one of them more than likely is the culprit. With me gone they would have swept in to fill the gap. Paul Vardé and Joachim La Valette were two of the most powerful ministers in Rennaire, and they had hated Alabaster since the day he arrived. Whether they're responsible for the poisoning or not, they smell blood. The old fear flared in Alabaster's chest. The memory of hunger. Everything he had built could be taken away again, snatched in an instant. He only had one ally, and thankfully that was the most powerful man in the country… but if the King was turned against him… Phillipe is a weak man. How much would it take? Five days? Six? 

“Do know you have my support," Jules said, brushing Alabaster's shoulder. “You cured dear Gabriel when no other man could. My family owes you a great debt, you're a friend to us and the Crown. But there are times for things like this, no? If you worry my father, I fear that Vardé and La Valette will only get in deeper." 

Alabaster said nothing, only nodding tersely.

“Good," Jules said, smiling weakly. He spun on his heel, snapping a finger at a nearby Gardes du Corps Impérial. The guard instantly snapped to attention, bowing before them as he unlocked the door and dragged it open. 

Prince Jules entered first, hurriedly wending his way towards his father's table. Alabaster took a moment for politeness, before following after him. 

King Phillipe Auguste de Rennaire XIV sat at the head of a great banquet table in the centre of the room. The room in question was his royal bedchamber, a massive space that would put most noble ballrooms to shame. It was echoic and shiny, silver and marble gleaming, three and four-metre-wide paintings adorning the walls – mostly featuring Phillipe and his ancestors performing heroic feats they had nothing to do with. 

“Alabaster!" The King's face lit up with delight as he saw the new arrival. The King of Rennaire was enormous, squeezed into silk gowns larger than many people's bedsheets, a turkey leg clutched in one paw, a goblet of wine in the other. The table before him was laden with food, pastries piled up high, glazed meats perched in the centre. Far too much food for such a small gathering of men. 

How many families would that feed?

“Alabaster, Alabaster," the King shook his head, jowls wobbling like jelly. “It has been too long since you attended me and… lended… me…" Phillipe trailed off slowly, glancing between the men seated at either side of him. “... your advice." 

“Monsieur… Alabaster…" said the man at the King's left. He was a lion dressed in a fine red coat and wearing a white powdered wig on his head, lounging back in his chair. Paul Vardé, the minister for finance. “Did you…" he wagged a finger back and forth. “Realise that… his Royal Majesty was… summoning you?" 

Alabaster bowed deeply before the table. “My deepest apologies, your majesty." 

“The snake has slithered back for his whipping! What a bargain, what an absolute treat!" The man at the King's right snickered. He was a blue crane dressed in a frilly white shirt – Joachim La Valette, the minister for diplomacy. Infamous for his acid tongue. “Thought I smelled something foul, turns out it was death. Violated any corpses lately, necromancer?" 

Alabaster grit his teeth. If only you knew… 

“Oh, Lord Joachim please come off it," gasped Jules, falling into an empty seat. “I swear, if we had two of you, the only tolerable solution would be to order one to hang the other." 

Paul Vardé clicked his tongue, his wig bouncing around his head. “Are you going to… ah… tolerate this kind of… behaviour…. your majesty?"

Don't get between me and my meal ticket, Vardé, Alabaster thought. How he despised that man. A fop, a fool, and a fucking thorn in his side. Vardé had a ridiculously simplistic view of the world, he was a man who never saw a bigger picture; a man who did nothing but seek out the highest authority in the room and immediately begin sucking up to them like the leech he was. What is the point of men like you, Paul Vardé? 

“You mustn't, your majesty," Joachim said, his beak chittering with glee. As the two advisors spoke, the King's expression quickly soured, his mood easily overturned. “I mean, four days is beyond tardy. We've executed soldiers for less." 

“No one is suggesting execution," said the third and final figure at the table. Cardinal Loïc Taine, a deer dressed in the black and red robes of the Church of the One God. An advisor on faith, but as poisoned a pond as any of them. “Monsieur Alabaster has come, that is what matters most now. We can move on, and leave the judgement to God." 

Paul Vardé, Joachim La Valette, and Cardinal Loïc Taine. Alabaster searched their faces for any signs of surprise, finding none. It was unsurprising, whoever was responsible for his death, they would surely have realised it hadn't taken by now. 

Paul is too much a fool. Loïc doesn't have blood dark enough for it, and Joachim has always been all talk. They each had motivation, but not the impetus. Why now, of all times? Why attack me this week, this day, and not the last? 

“The King relies on you… Alabaster," said Vardé. “You do… understand that, yes? Here in Rennaire civilised men serve… the crown, and are glad for it… yes, very glad. We do not simply… do… as we please."

Alabaster narrowed his eyes. I have been a part of this Court for years and you know it, scum.

“I assure you, Minister Vardé, I understand perfectly." He wondered, briefly, what Paul Vardé would look like without any skin.

“But it is not acceptable, all the same," said the King, glancing at Paul Vardé for approval. Disapproving was not an air that sat well on the gelatinous King, rather he gave off the impression of a petulant child trying very hard to be intimidating. “Not at all acceptable, isn't that right Paul?" Vardé nodded his assent. “There will be no more unexplained absences, Alabaster, is that understood? I am the King. I will be obeyed!"

“Of course, your majesty." He bowed once more for good measure. Better to just swallow his medicine and move on. “Now, how might I be of service?"

“We were talking about matters of the common folk," Jules explained, eager to move away from his friend's tongue lashing. “It's no secret there's unrest in the streets." 

“It was suggested…" said Cardinal Loïc. “That coming from a more… should we say humble background, you may have insights." 

“Humble is one way to put it, Cardinal." 

“Filthy is another!" Joachim chuckled. 

Jules leaned forward in his seat, offering up a small leaflet of papers. “Here, take a look at this."

Alabaster took the paper, frowning. The letters were printed crudely, and titled ANOTHER GRAND VICTORY FOR GENERAL LEON VALOISIER! The body of the paper dictated more drivel, fawning over this General Valoisier again and again. There was even a small picture, a blotted silhouette braced atop a hill, hoisting a flag.

As if any general would do such a job themselves. It was laughable, but in these troubling times peasants often clamoured towards mythical heroes. Leon was far away, and they could envision him as the perfect saviour, a warrior without any of the mortal scruples that troubled their true leaders.

“Bloody printing presses," said Paul Vardé, clearing his throat. The old lion spoke in staccato phrases, with big pauses, gesticulating wildly as he did. “Popping up… all over now, aren't they? Look left, or right, they're like… pimples… yes, pimples…. any fool with a thought can spread it out into the world!"

“Time to start popping," said Joachim, popping a grape into his beak.

“The General of the Greater Eastern Army," Prince Jules explained. “This Valoisier fellow took command little over a year ago, and hasn't lost a battle since. Now it seems he has done the impossible. These brochures are all over Albedo. Read his proclamations, they are written as if he speaks to the common man himself."  

Alabaster sighed. “And what is it he has done that's so impossible?" 

Vardé guffawed. “He has defeated an… exceptional force, the combined army of Losaile and Danegard, led by the Emperor Ferdinand himself. Reports say… he also killed an Angel with his own two paws. I know, I know, but… consider it." 

“This is ridiculous, who would believe it?" 

“His men believe it," Joachim said, the crane carefully studying the remainder of his grapes. “And you know the common rabble, they believe anything."

“Even the fucking enemy believes it," Jules scoffed. “We have reports intercepted from the Emperor's generals, and they say putting Valoisier on the field is equal to a thousand extra men."

“Preposterous!" said Loïc. 

“Outrageous!" chimed Joachim.

“They love him," the King whimpered, red wine dotting the white strips of fur across his cheeks. “Alabaster, the people love him more than they love me! And they're already so angry! Damn it all. I am so tired of these peasant complaints! Every day they cry out for more, more, and no matter how much I give, still they demand more! I feel practically a prisoner in my own palace! Is it expected that I empty my pockets so they might take that too?!

“What are they even so angry about?!" The King growled, balling his fists up before himself. “Do I not keep them safe? Have I not ended the war?" 

“They have no bread, your majesty," said Paul Vardé.

“And they have no jobs," said Joachim La Valette.

“And God looks upon them," said Cardinal Loïc. 

“God's in his heaven! If it's bloody bread they want, then let them bloody have it!" The King cried, snatching a muffin from his banquet. “Or better, let them eat cake! Then maybe they can stop their miserable griping!" He hurled the muffin but it flew pathetically short, squashing on the marble floor. His tantrum charged on, swollen face puffing up even further, hackles raised along his neck. His bloodshot eyes whirled, searching for the next target, anyone who would take his ire without complaint. “And you, Alabaster, you will know your place! Lord Vardé is right, I've been so cavalier in allowing you to flounce about this office! I am the King! Not you! Not the commoners! Not anyone else, only me! I will be obeyed! I will be obeyed!"

“Time to buy yourself a new watch, monsieur," said Joachim, giving Alabaster a wink. “I think your time is running out."

To the side, Jules was shielding his eyes with a paw. 

“This is about… the general…" said Paul Vardé, his mane and wig flopping about as he spoke. “Leon Valoisier, he is… a problem. Not too big, nothing we can't deal with, of course not, of course… but still… a problem nonetheless." 

“We're giving you another chance, Alabaster," Joachim said cheerfully. “It is understood that you do not know all of our ways. His Highness leaves judgement to the Lord, but he is too wise to tolerate repeated failures. Punishment must come eventually." 

“I wouldn't dream of giving you that opportunity, Lord Joachim," Alabaster said, mindful to keep his tone in check. Inwardly, he seethed. 

Repeated? Repeated?! Try and list just one of my failures you despicable fool. I have served this Crown for years and never once come short. What contribution have you made, besides snide comments and an oversized fruit bill? He wanted to choke the fucking bird with his fucking grapes, then they could let that spineless eel try and lecture him. 

Instead, he smiled. “Now, this general. How might I assist the Crown?" 

“Find his secrets!" Blurted King Philippe, the portly badger rocking in his seat. “Please, Alabaster. I can't have him coming back here and embarrassing me! There's got to be something he wants to hide, something we can use to muzzle him!" 

Is there anything more important in this Kingdom than your humiliation, my King? 

“He isn't even bloody ratified," Joachim croaked. “Where did this boy even come from!? Somebody, please, educate me! I say we simply deny his generalship, demote him back to lieutenant captain!" 

“Or send him away," Alabaster suggested. “Pack the boy off to a colony, he can be the general of lifeless dirt on the Inner Sea coast." 

“If only it were that easy," said Prince Jules. “The man killed an Angel and won an unwinnable battle, Monsieur Valoisier's fame has eclipsed our influence. Even now, I hear he is negotiating peace with Losaile and Danegard. He's ended the war! If we send this boy away, the outcry could be worse than letting him run amok!" 

“Commoners are easily drawn to false idols," said the Cardinal. The deer eyed Alabaster keenly as he spoke. “As their betters, it is up to us to steer them clear." 

“What is the concern, exactly?" Alabaster asked. “What could he do that is so damaging?" 

“What he could do doesn't matter," Paul Vardé explained. “The fact is… he is undermining our King… he thinks, really thinks… he's better than the Crown. He could… start another war, or create… more riots. Who knows? All I am saying is that… who knows?" 

“You must find his secrets, Alabaster," said the King, practically begging. “Use your mystic ways, whatever sorceries at your disposal… find what pushes him and push it, before he embarasses me any more."

The pride of a King is a fragile thing indeed. 

Jules swirled wine in his glass. “I've never met the man, but I already know he isn't half what he presents himself in this drivel. Reports even claim he eats with his own soldiers, can you imagine? What of separation between ranks?"  

“Absolutely shameless," Cardinal Loïc muttered. “His family is of the aristocracy, but only by the thinnest of margins."

“Damn the thin margins! A damn commoner is out there making you look like a fool, Father," Jules said, leaning towards the King. “I'd have him flogged and call it a day!" 

The King shook his head. “They're all laughing at me, aren't they? Well, I'll show them." Phillipe took a huge bite of his muffin, one sausage-fingered paw reaching out to squeeze Alabaster's wrist. He spoke around the mouthful, crumbs falling down his chops. “You cured my boy, Alabaster, you saved the heir to this country from that horrid illness! Now, pray tell, can you fix this?" 

“Fix this," said Paul Vardé. 

“Or else," added Joachim La Valette. 

“Our King has more mercy than God, monsieur, but even his grace has limits," said Cardinal Loïc. 

Alabaster looked to each of the three ministers, one of them had killed him, he was certain now. Poison was only one method. If he wasn't careful, they would use Valoisier as a noose to hang him. I will not give you the satisfaction. 

“Well?" Asked the King, banging a paw on the table so hard it rattled his porcelain crockery. “Can you fix it? Tell me you can find something on him." 

Alabaster dipped his head, stuffing the white-hot anger down deep, letting it cool. “All men have their secrets, your Majesty, it's merely about turning over the right stone."  

“I find glib phrases roll off the tongue easily enough," added Joachim, now busy peeling a bright green fruit. “Especially for one as slick as yours, Alabaster. My experience is that actions take one much further than empty promises."

Alabaster inhaled slowly. “If you mean Leon Valoisier, minister, I will do my utmost to curtail him."

“You misunderstand. I meant something a bit more… immediate. You are not a minister, or even a lord, Alabaster. Legally, you are no better than a peasant, no? You have disrespected the crown and all of us by your ignorance to our summons. I personally am quite offended, I feel my trust has been misplaced in you." 

“What are you getting at, Joachim?" said Jules. “May God look away from me, just spit it out already man!" 

The crane shrugged, raising a feathered hand. He proffered a wide golden ring inlaid with jewels squeezed onto his middle finger. “My symbol of office. Respect must be shown." 

Alabaster saw red. For a moment he could not move, locked into place, muscles spasming, claws curling. Joachim would know how much the act would infuriate him, and it would only make the humiliation that much more painful. 

I'm just a slave to you. A fucking rat beneath your boot, huh? He was just like the owners in the knife-pits Alabaster grew up in. They all are. They all own people the exact same way, only their chains are money and food instead of iron. 

“Surely you cannot be serious!" Jules exclaimed, glancing from Joachim to Alabaster, mouth hanging open.

Even the King looked shocked. “This is… Joachim, is this truly necessary–"

“I am afraid so, your majesty," the crane hissed, wagging his hand at Alabaster. “Come now, little lizard."

Each step felt like his boots were filled with stone. Alabaster inched forward mechanically, pulsing with fury. Maintaining eye contact, he bent slowly, taking Joachim's soft feathered hand and raising it to his lips. Failing to suppress the shudders of raw hatred burning through him, Alabaster gingerly pressed his lips to the ring. 

“Lovely, I can feel my offence melting away already!" He laughed, a grating noise, like nails grinding on chalkboard. 

“Anyone else?" Alabaster asked, standing up straight. Vardé almost looked as if he were about to offer a paw, but one glare from Alabaster and the lion quickly backed down. You've always been one for the shadows, Vardé, the brave lion… but only behind closed doors.

“Yes… thank you… Alabaster…" the King said, clearly unsure how he was supposed to act, and just wanting the awkwardness to end. “You… uh… you may go now." 

Alabaster thanked the King and stormed out as properly as he could manage. 

Bastards. All of them. In his haste Alabaster practically bowled over an entering Gardes du Corps Impérial, ignoring the fox's pointed glare as he marched off down the stairs. 

The shame burned through him like lightning in his veins, skin prickling cold beneath his scales. Forced to kiss the ring of a man like Joachim, in front of everyone, in front of the prince, the King. It was a display of weakness, of ultimate submission. It said you will never be one of us. In the knife-pits, showing weakness meant death. Alabaster learned quickly – hide your illness, hide your anger, and wait until the time is right. 

But everyone had limits, and he could feel his drawing near.

Bastards. Fools. The lot of them. It's only been four days, how could I slip so far? And why now? The question pounded relentlessly in his mind. Leon Valoisier… how does the paleblood gentryman fit into this? Whoever was stoking the King's flames regarding the general had a plan. Phillipe was far too detached from the common people to even be aware of a man like Leon, someone had to have planted that seed. If I could find which of them put that fear into the King…

This plan was another kind of poison. They were setting him up somehow, Alabaster just couldn't see how yet. No man is bulletproof, if there is filth I will find it. Surviving a battlefield from behind an army is one thing, surviving the Crown's Court is an entirely different game, general. Alabaster knew next to nothing about the man, but he hated Leon Valoisier already.

He left the palace hall behind, spiralling up the stairs to his laboratory in the west wing, teeth squeaking in his jaw as he grinded them against one another. Unlocking his door he swept into the room like a storm on the sea, slamming it shut behind him and growling into his arm. 

His back found the hard wood of the door, heart pounding in his chest, eyes stinging. Tears? Really? How weak you've become. 

The sour taste of rage mixed with humiliation sizzled on his tongue, and it took several breaths before he could steady himself. 

“They want to take everything from me," he whispered. Bellamy sat on his perch, the reanimated vulture shifting slightly. A stitched-up scar ran diagonally across the feral bird's chest, holding in two new organs Alabaster had found for his undead friend. Bringing the dead back was no easy feat, but a vulture was a less complex creature than a man. 

Bellamy clicked at him, shuffling on his little ledge. Part of Alabaster had not been sure if his friend would be there after his revival, but undead or not the returned Bellamy knew him, and the only real difference seemed to be the amber rings lining his beady black eyes. 

“I can feel their eyes, my friend," he whispered to the bird, going to him. One ivory claw reached out, crimson currents bleeding between the scales. He stroked the bird's neck, Bellamy craning to push against Alabaster's palm. “They think their whispers can hurt me, they think I am playing along with their little games." He shook his head. “All they see when they look at me is some foreign monster, it's all they've ever seen."

Just like the owners in Urdo. They took one look at Alabaster's patterns and declared him slave-caste. Doomed to serve at the bottom rung of society, no matter how much he proved himself. 

He sniffed, tapping Bellamy's beak. “Don't you worry. I won't let them hurt us like that ever again."
He'd been weak. Complacent. And that had allowed the killer to get close, to slip poison into his drink, to bury him in a shallow grave. 

They'll die. All three of them. Alabaster grinned, imagining the scene. Valoisier is a distraction, not the focus. The killer was in that room, it was one of them, it must be. Only someone ambitious enough to make it that high in the court would ever dare strike against me. 

He would find the dirt they wanted on Valoisier, but in due course. Alabaster could feel the pieces moving, and he was determined to be a player, not a pawn. Finding the killer was what mattered most – whoever had whispered these fears of usurpation to the King was the same man who had ordered Alabaster's death, he was sure of it. Obeying them would only play into their plans.

He drew back from Bellamy, heart slowing as the plan solidified in his mind. “A monster then. If that's what they see, then that's what they'll get." 

Alabaster fell into a frenzy, clearing his workbenches before going to the icebox – a narrow insulated room with large blocks of fresh ice standing in the corner. The naked body of a fox laid on a wheeled stretcher, ancient runes carved across his entire body. It was the last of the three men Alabaster had caught going through his things, the one who'd died by the extricated poison. 

“Death is just the beginning, do you remember I told you that?" He asked the corpse, leering over it. The fox's eyes were stitched open, a concentric pattern etched into his cheeks and forehead. The letters of the First Angels, a language from before entropy had corrupted their bloodline. 

“Oh," he clucked his tongue, wheeling the body out into the main workspace. “I have such sights to show you!" The thrill of his work raced through him, his old master Fayex's lessons sprinting through his mind. Here in his work he wasn't hamstrung by politics, here he was free to be as vicious and bloodthirsty as his heart desired.

Angels were explosive. Their magic was wild and volatile, capable of sweeping armies away in the blink of an eye… but it could not heal. It could not fix anything. In the long histories of the Church, they had never once documented an Angel with the power to do anything but kill in increasingly creative ways. Supposedly the Firsts could create as much as destroy, but their time was so many centuries ago it was more myth than history. 

Alabaster was not an Angel. He was a sangoma – the Urdo word for witch doctor. His sorcery was one of ancient runes, ritual, and methodical practice. He and Fayez had spent months poring over single texts, testing theories, documenting their findings. A sangoma was patient, and Alabaster could spend hours of work to accomplish a fraction of what an Angel could do in the blink of an eye. They were like noblemen; privileged beyond belief, and yet still they wasted their gifts out of complacency. 

I will waste nothing, Alabaster thought as he placed candles around the room, lighting them one-by-one. He worked quickly but carefully, drawing out binding rings and cosmic sigils across the floor in chalk.

“You were so confident." The dragon leaned over the corpse, teeth flashing. “But the dead talk. They scream, they kick and thrash and beg me to hear their secrets. They belong to me. And soon, you'll scream and kick… and you'll beg too."

The corpse said nothing. 

Alabaster couldn't touch Joachim, or Vardé, or Loïc… not yet… not until he had proof. 

“But I can do anything I like to you," he said to the corpse, stepping to its side. The runes trailed down its body in a beautifully intricate tapestry of interlocking geometry, covering almost every inch of the fox's hide – save for his abdomen, which was pointedly absent of any marks. 

I am the scalpel, I am the slow burn. He drew his kriss dagger from its place at his hip, the waved edge of the blade flashing in the candlelight. “Precision…" He whispered, fingers of his free claw tracing over the fox's belly. “Down to the last dead letter." 

Making a corpse dance was a parlour trick. Getting dead limbs to clamber on up with their last vestiges of life was simple – even buried in the commoner's grave Alabaster could do it with a flick of his claw. They weren't strong or fast or even coordinated, but they were at least obedient. 

Getting a corpse to talk was another matter entirely. Movement was straightforward; skeletons and the musculature wrapped around them were little more than intricate marionettes. To answer questions though, a body had to be capable of thought. It had to hear the words, understand the concept, and get that thought all the way from its rotting grey matter out onto its tongue. Alabaster had seen it fail many times, usually in disgusting fashion. The other bodies were too damaged, it was this fox, or it was nothing. 

“But you won't fail me, will you?" He asked the corpse, bringing the kriss dagger around to the fox's belly. The blade slipped into the stomach flesh like it was carving butter. Alabaster slit him open in one smooth motion, a waft of fetid air bursting free. This line of work was not for the squeamish, but he had never been intimidated by the bodies he worked with. Does the butcher fear the lamb corpse? Why should I? 

The dagger opened up the fox's abdomen from right to left, blood sticking in place at the smooth edges of the wound. 

“Wrong and ruin intertwined," Alabaster muttered, laying the dagger aside and pushing his claw into the opened slit. “Now I pour your nothing into mine." 

His arm squirmed through the cold corpse guts until he was elbow deep, wearing the fox like a puppet on his claw. 

Breathing in the sulphur of his candles, Alabaster began to recite the dead words. They stung on his tongue, burning at his lips, the power of the other echoing through each ancient syllable. Modern Angels saw the world in its rawest form, the building blocks of reality strung together with threads of other… but the First Angels were raw power. Their breath froze the lakes solid while their shrugs moved mountains to dust. So much eldritch force was locked behind those old gods that even singular words of their language held power, if one knew how to draw from it. It was not an easy feat to accomplish, but nothing worth doing ever was.

Sorcery curled around Alabaster's arm like a wild snake, pain lancing through his muscles, the threads of other weaving around himself and the corpse, dragging the last dregs of life back into the cold limbs. 

With an unnatural rhythm the cadaver burst back to life, or at least a pale approximation of it. Alabaster kept his arm inside, steering the revenant as it arched its back on the slab, a dry rasping noise scratching from its throat as it tried to breathe and found the lungs no longer working. 

“Be still," Alabaster warned. The fox's faded eyes darted left and right, head sagging loosely, as if it were only half-attached to his shoulders. “You are not the man that died in this body, you are just flesh. A soulless golem." 

The fox looked right at him, eyes unnaturally wide from the stitched-open eyelids. It tried to speak, a rough hewn scratch gurgling deep in its gullet. Alabaster wanted to giggle, his fingers turning around the bulbous bloated organs within. The Rennairan nobility liked to jest about his powers, they called him necromancer, they gossipped about his defilement… but they didn't realise how close to the truth they really were. They thought him a mystic, a glorified soothsayer who's true skill was telling people what they wanted to hear. 

This is real sorcery, he thought, curling his claw inside as the body shifted around it, sputtering out nonsense as it tried to regain control over atrophied vocal cords.

“You can spit and curse all you like, but you will talk," he growled. Corpses were naturally reticent, but in the end they could resist him no more than a stone could resist gravity. “This is the price you pay."

“It hurtsss…" The fox finally coughed. 

“I know it hurts," Alabaster replied. “Do you think it did not hurt me when you buried me in the soil? When you killed my only friend?" He was quick to reign in the sudden anger that rose in his chest. This corpse was not that man that had killed Bellamy, only a horrid reflection of what he'd been. 

“This is… my way," the corpse said suddenly, twisting on the metal slab. “I've found my home. My state of real. Now to another I fly, I come with life in my veins. Through darkened space I ran, I left a struggle behind." 

“Quiet." Alabaster clenched his fist. Reanimated corpses were known to spout madness, glimmers of their former mind trying to make sense of the untethered reality of death. You were once part of the other, and now you are back in the world. He took a small joy in how terrifying it must be for the corpse. 

“Is it God?!" The corpse croaked, suddenly locking eyes with Alabaster, head shuddering violently. “Is it-it God… to live in a dog? If I… am a missing link between the pig and the divine? I shall ca-ast my pearls b-before… the swine!"

“Stop!" Alabaster commanded, shoving the corpse back down onto the slab. “You are my revenant, you will obey me." 

“How could you hope to harm me?" The corpse asked, grinning at him. 

You're losing it, losing control. This thing is not real, it can't actually resist you. 

“You can't even save yourself, Alabaster," the corpse snarled, some dark sound approximating a laugh coming from within its chest. “There's a serpent coiling round my neck! The adoring crescent moon in blazing night! They will take everything from you, it is so close!" 

“Never again. What do you know, fool!" Alabaster cried, trying not to let his fear bleed through. “Tell me who sent you, who gave you the body!" My body. 

“So close," the corpse repeated, his voice echoing against itself, harmonising in a terror chord. “So much sacrifice… all to end up the way you started, a dead slave. You will always be a slave to them!" 

“NEVER AGAIN!" Alabaster roared, raising his dagger with his free arm and slamming it into the revenant's shoulder. It would not hurt the creature, but it made him feel better. “Why did they come after me? Why kill me?"

“They said you were a heretic!" The corpse reeled. “That we'd be patriots… saving the country! Saving what country? No God, no King. We didn't care, we just saw their gold." 

“Give me a name, give me a fucking name!"

“Intermediaries," the corpse croaked. “I have no names to give, necromancer. I do not fear your powers, you will never eclipse Fayez, you will never be half the nightmare you pretend to be!"

“I have already eclipsed Fayez," Alabaster growled. His master had peered into the raw other as the Angels did, and it drove him to madness. The leper had been a skilled sangoma, there was no denying it, but Alabaster's abilities had outstretched the old goat long ago. 

Why are you trying to prove yourself to a corpse? Would the butcher debate with his sirloin? 

“The killers, the one who orchestrated this," Alabaster said. “They came to you via intermediaries. Where, or how?" 

“Are you afraid to die again, Al-Bastir Tu Rafiq?" Alabaster flinched at the corpse's perfect use of his old Urdo name, before the clumsy Rennairan tongue had watered it down. “I can tell you what the other side is really like. Like a thousand shrines subsumed into the void. Like a dead space in between the suns. Everything and nothing… to be the cancer in the heart, the grass in the field, and the cow that eats it all at once. Aren't you scared?" 

“I am afraid of nothing," Alabaster snapped. He closed his fist inside the corpse's chest cavity, feeling the last threads of sorcery bleeding away. You're losing him, get the answers before he passes. “The intermediaries, how did they contact you? Where did they come from?" 

The fox's dead eyes gleamed. “The Undercity," he whispered, grinning. 

“The…" Alabaster paused. The Undercity was huge, he'd never been there before himself but by all accounts it was a lawless place that lurked beneath the streets of Albedo, populated by beggars and thieves. 

He might as well say he met with a man. Hurry! The body was fading fast now. Alabaster could revive him again, but each time he did the information would grow less reliable, as the essence inside slowly eroded. Revival was a corrosive act. You were lucky to get this much, Fayez could never have managed it. 

“Where! I need more than that, corpse." 

Vardé, Joachim, Loïc… none of them had the capability of something like this. Those damned fools had no idea the levels Alabaster would go to, the depths he would sink to protect the life he had built. No one would ever make him a slave again. 

You made the worst mistake of your life coming for me. The last one you'll ever make.

“Talk to me," Alabaster hissed. 

“The broken clock!" The fox gasped, jerking violently around Alabaster's arm. “The clock! Broken, shattered in the little empire hiding from the sun! Sewer rats and rot, shattered again!"

“A broken clock?" Alabaster repeated slowly, confused. “In an office? A house? A town square? Damn it, give me more!"

The fox tried to speak, but the body was failing. The tongue lolled, gagging in the throat as his eyes rolled back into his skull.

Disgusted, Alabaster ripped his claw free, wiping the sticky gore from his scales.

“It's a start," he told Bellamy, the vulture squawking in reply. “I will go to the Undercity, I will find this… broken clock, and the men responsible for my death. Then…" He breathed in slowly, closing his eyes, pausing, and opening them again. 

“Then I will know everything."