"Then you should go to the Department of Thanatology and speak with the Dean. I've already indicated to him that he might want to collect a few interesting sets of remains, so it shouldn't take too long. When you're done there, you may tell your Rubbery Scholar that it's been accepted, and should report to the registrar at its earliest convenience."

"Awesome!" 

Off to the Department of Thanatology!

It's in a pretty central location on the campus; apparently Thanatology, like Chiropteronomy, is one of those fields that got more attention after the Fall. The Dean is easy enough to locate.

"A dozen, you say?" he asks, looking almost hungry. "We can certainly do that. Do you have any limit on how many you can raise at once?"

"I don't know! I haven't tested it. If I did, though, I'd be surprised if it was as low as a dozen."

He licks his lips nervously. "I don't suppose that you'd go so far as two dozen?"

She grins at him. 

"I am so in favor of people being alive you have no idea."

He looks confused. "People being- oh. I suppose that is a side effect of all this, isn't it. Well, I'll get you two dozen, that's a good start, and if you want to do some more we'll call you back when we're done with those."

A porter comes in, wheeling a sarcophagus on a handcart. "The Dean of Egyptology wanted me to tell you she'll see you on the field of battle one day for this, sir."

"Yes, yes, she's been saying that for years. This, madam, is the first subject we wish for you to resurrect. A good combination of characteristics - well-preserved, in a sense, and possessed of a historically valuable perspective."

This guy has fucked-up priorities but whatever. 

She bites her lip, she draws the symbol, she glows. 

The mummy swells with life, going from desiccated corpse to naked young man in the course of a few seconds. He sucks in a deep breath and says something, presumably in Egyptian.

"Tu loquerisne Latine?" the Dean asks.

"Loquella tua est turpis," the former mummy says. "Quod civitus est?"

The Dean's brow furrows. "London."

"Quod numerum."

"...Quintus."

The former mummy begins swearing at length in Egyptian.

"Porter," the Dean says over the sound of compound phrases, "please take the gentleman to the Egyptology department. And, erm, get him some clothes. Vade cum ecce vir."

The porter leads the former mummy out, and the Dean turns back to the Wastelander. "Well! I call that a success!"

"Excellent. Although I do wonder why he was so pissed off about this being the fifth city..."

"Yes, he did seem rather upset. I imagine the Egyptology department will be able to extract better information from him, I don't really speak that much Latin. Now, the other cadavers were being assembled in another room; shall I lead you there?"

"Certainly."

He leads her there, and further experimentation ensues.

Can she resurrect a skeleton? Yes! A fake skeleton? No! A boneless cadaver? Yes! Can she resurrect a cat? No! A rat? No! Someone who sold her soul before death? Yes! Someone who died of old age? Yes! Someone who died of Cantigaster venom? Yes! A Clay Man? No! A Rubbery Man? Yes! A skull? No, but if they put it near enough its body, yes! A headless cadaver? Yes! (It turns out the symbol can be drawn on the chest instead of the forehead, in a pinch.)

The resulting persons are led out of the laboratory by students. As she's starting to run out of gurneys, though...

...a certain Provocateuse opens the door. She's got a corpse over her shoulder.

"I've got one more subject for you, if you're not quite done," she says. "A matter of some personal curiosity."

"Well, I'm game," she says, trying to get a better look at the corpse. 

She lays him out on one of the previously used gurneys, over the mild protestations of one of the other researchers. Then she puts his head back on his neck.

The corpse is that of a young man, rather skinny, rather short. His hair is dishwater-blonde, his skin bloodlessly pale. His body is covered in scars, from knives and burns and at least one hanging, and he has a tattoo on his shoulder: a sigil in the Correspondence, Hunger which cannot be sated. The scorching around it is relatively minor, indicating a very competent tattooist.

"I killed him myself," the Provocateuse says simply. "My curiosity is as to whether you can cure him of the affliction which made that necessary. I was never terribly fond of him... but he didn't deserve what happened."

...She looks at the tattoo. 

"Well, I can try." 

She draws the sigil and glows at him very firmly. 

The scars are stubborn, more stubborn than any wound she's treated. They shrink reluctantly, and fight her for every inch. It's like trying to bail out a sinking ship in a nightmare of dark water.

But she's stronger. Slowly, slowly, they close, leaving skin unblemished but for the constellations of freckles. The young man - not much more than a boy, really, without the scars - opens his eyes.

"I..." He rubs at his neck. "Gawain?" He feels about his torso. "Arthur?"

He looks up at the Wastelander. "What have you done to me?"

"Me? Brought you back from the dead." She pokes the tattoo. "Care to explain this?"

"He deserves to be remembered. If nothing else, he should be remembered."

"Mr. Candles, you mean?"

The Seeker cocks his head to the side.

"That is not the Name. Eaten. He was Candles once, but he is Candles no longer."

One of the researchers screams and flees the room. Several others go pale and inch towards the exit. 

"The Correspondence sigil on his closed-up rooms at the Bazaar are remarkably ambiguous on that subject. Why does remembering him involve tattoos and scars, and why did several people just flee the room? I was sort of under the impression he was a secret. I mean, you told me so," she adds to the Provocateuse. 

"Oh, Candles is a secret. A much bigger one than I told you at the time, even, but in my defense I had some pieces to put together. Eaten... is also secret, in a sense, but the shape of that secret is widely known. Many, many people have been driven mad seeking the truth of it, and have brought others down with them. I imagine the woman who screamed has encountered Seekers before."

"I have to remember him. The tattoo... is nothing. I thought I could spell his Name, but it was a mistake. The scars... if you want to speak someone's story, to know it like your own, you must live that story."

"Nothing hurts," he complains. He begins absentmindedly gnawing at his wrist. "You cleansed me," he accuses.