"Bone Wicked" 2

Calla tried to move as quietly as she could, but her feet, in the guardsman's big boots, thumped on the stone. Where was this? She'd assumed a guardhouse, but they'd black-bagged her when they saw the skeletons. There were more rooms here than there should be. Too big a jail for a village like this. Thicker walls. She paused when she... felt... the shape of a person up ahead. This was a T-junction; the person and light that played on the walls up ahead. Nothing but the cells behind. Calla turned left, onto a carpet that muffled her footsteps. Good. The floors were still stone, under the carpet, but it was looking less prison-like with every turn. Maybe underground? No, there'd been a window in her cell.
            There were windows here, too. First they were up high, like the one she couldn't reach in her cell. Then, thin arrow slits that showed her glimpses of greenery. Maybe a drawbridge. A smudge of... city. Calla's steps slowed as she stared through the full, large windows that shed rainbow light onto the reading room she'd entered.
           The capitol. They'd brought her into the capitol. She must have been unconscious at some point, maybe drugged. The trip from her village-of-the-moment would have taken too long. She was in the capitol, these windows--more red than rainbow, Calla noticed now--depicted the pentannual rituals in all their democratic glory.
          The owner of the bones sitting in the chair across the room cleared his throat. Calla lowered her eyes slowly, as though that could lessen the danger of looking the dark lord himself in the face.
          It wasn't him. Somehow she'd expected the horned helmet and the armor, but he wouldn't wear those at home. He'd wear... maybe a housecoat, and slippers, but not coated in dust. No, this wasn't the lord. This man was a pigpen. The pigs were probably better groomed. His hair, skin, and clothing were all gray with rock dust, although the gloves with which he held his book were clean.
          "Hello, Calla," the man said. He kept his eyes on the hollow of her throat. When she tried the crouching trick to make eye contact with him, he just closed his eyes. Fair enough; Calla took the chance to turn, to head back the other way. Maybe the other body she'd sensed would be easier to--
           She made it two steps, and then her foot wouldn't lift. She fell over, but her feet stayed planted. A seam of stone outlined each foot, as though someone had carved out hollows for her to stand in. As Calla cursed at her stretched tendons and twisted knees, she noticed the carpet rolled against the wall.
         "I haven't done anything illegal," Calla said.
         "That's the problem with a dark lord," the lithomancer said. His voice moved; he was walking toward her. "'Illegal' changes at the drop of a horned hat."
         "I didn't raise the dead. Nothing is--was--illegal about moving bones. I'm not a necrourge," Calla said. She stiffened when she felt the man's hands on her, but he lifted her to her feet and then let go. He remained behind her; she couldn't twist enough to see him.
         "No?" said the man. Calla's eyes widened at the sight as three dusty skeletons stepped through the door. "Shame. We could use one."

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