Page 33 of A Drop of Corruption

“Oh, hell!” he cried. “By Sanctum! What…what is that! Who is that, who isthat?”

We all gazed at him, bewildered. Then I approached the box.

Inside it sat a lumpen, withered object, rounded at the top and rippled at the bottom, and covered all over with dark, wrinkled flesh, like that of a cut of meat left in a smoker pot for a very long while. It was quite large, being about a span tall and three quarters of a span wide. I only realized what it was when I saw the protuberance of a crooked nose in the middle, and below that two delicate, paperish lips; and there, on either side, shriveled, shrimplike appendages that could have once been ears.

“Ah,” I said softly.

I heard Prificto Kardas whisper beside me, “What inhell?”

Then Malo: “Oh, fuck.”

It was a head. A severed human head that had been mummified or preserved, with nearly every feature still intact save its eyes, which must have been removed, for the sockets now sat empty. The surreality of the sight was so intense that I almost laughed.

Yet the maddest thing was the small piece of parchment tucked between the dark, paperish lips; for written there in very small, careful handwriting, were ten words:

For those who sip from the marrow

Te siz imperiya.

I stared at the words, astounded.

Malo shook her head, made a quiettchsound, and said, “Well. I am afraid I am going to have to ask you all to leave the bank. And quickly, too.”

“Wh-what?” demanded Prificto Kardas. “What do you mean, Signum?”

“We wardens have a procedure for when an organic substance is used as a tool of sabotage or tampering,” she sighed. “And a goddamnhead qualifies as a substance, and sticking one in an Iyalet vault is most definitely tampering. We shall have to all troop in here and make sure it is not a carrier of infection—and then try to figure out whose fucking head that is.”

“But…but where is it?” asked Ghrelin faintly.

“Where is what, sir?” asked Malo.

“Where…where have all my materials gone?” he asked, panicked. Then his voice grew to a shriek: “Where has it all gone,where has it gone?” One of the Treasury officers went to comfort him, but he violently shoved her back, shouting, “Don’t touch me! Don’t you know what’s been done to me? Don’t you understandwhat’s been done?”

Then he burst into tears and collapsed to the floor, his face buried in his hands.

Chapter 14

I leaned against the walloutside the Treasury bank, chewing my pipe as late afternoon slowly blended into evening. Within, I knew, the Apoth contagion crew was subjecting the severed head to no end of tests, not only to identify it but also to ensure that it held no contagion or dangerous issue. As they’d been in there for nearly three hours and there’d been no alarm yet, I assumed all was safe, or at least as safe as a bank with boxes of severed heads could possibly be.

For the twentieth time, I debated if there was anything I could do besides wait here. I had no one else to question, really: after his collapse, Immunis Ghrelin had been rushed to a medikker’s bay. Though I had told them I wished to speak to him further, they rather curtly informed me that I’d need the approval of his superiors first. I did not love the sound of that, for it only deepened my misgivings about what might have been in that box.

I took my pipe out of my mouth and tetchily studied it. Chewing it was no substitute for its smoke, and though this habit of mine was dreadfully expensive, now seemed a good time to indulge.

I squatted, reached into my satchel, and took out my kindling bag and a tiny clay pot. The pot was no larger than my thumb and held a stiff, lumpy little mushroom. I speared the mushroom through with a splinter of treated wood; a thread of smoke unscrolled from within it; then the splinter of wood suddenly danced with a tiny, merry yellow flame.

I held it to the tip of my pipe, sparked the tobacco, and took a long pull from it, relishing the hot billow of smoke in my lungs. Then I placed the firestarter pot on the brick pathway and stomped on it, killing its flame. A foolish thing, perhaps, to waste it on a single pipe; but the taste of the tobacco calmed my nerves and thoughts, and I thanked Sanctum as the fumes poured from my lips.

Then the door of the bank opened and a figure emerged, wearing an immense mask wrought of glass and slickly shining algaeoil cloth, with a long metal snout: a warding helm, to protect against contagion.

A voice came from within the helm, sour and resentful: “You look like you’re having a pleasant time.”

The person undid the fasteners on the back and slid the helm off to reveal the sweaty, pink, furious face of Malo.

I nodded to her and spoke, my words animated with smoke: “How goes it?”

“How do you think?” she snapped.

I nodded sympathetically, then sat down on the ground along the bank wall and gestured for her to do the same. Growling, she sat beside me and leaned her head back.