Fire Sea

by Margaret Weis

  Baltazar, breathing heavily from the exertion, joined the prince and the two moved out of the tunnel to the neutral territory in front of each army. The young necromancer advanced in his turn, meeting them halfway. Haplo sent the dog trotting after the prince. The Patryn leaned back against a wall, settled himself comfortably.

  Alfred, huffing and puffing, tumbled into him. “Did you hear what Baltazar said to me? He knows about Death's Gate!”

  “Shhh!” ordered Haplo irritably. “Keep your voice down or everyone in this blasted place will know about Death's Gate! Yes, I heard him. And, if he wants to go, I'll take him.”

  Alfred stared, aghast. “You can't mean that!”

  Haplo kept his eyes fixed on the negotiators, disdained to answer.

  “I understand!” Alfred said, voice trembling. “You want … this knowledge!” The Sartan pointed a finger at the rows of cadavers lined up in front of them.

  “Damn right.”

  “You will bring doom on us all! You will destroy everything we created!”

  “No!” Haplo said, shifting suddenly, jabbing his words into Alfred's breast with his finger. “You Sartan destroyed everything! We Patryns will return it to what it was! Now shut up, and let me listen.”

  “I'll stop you!” Alfred stated, bravely defiant. “I won't let you do this. I—” Loose gravel gave way beneath his foot. He slid, slipped. His hands scrabbled frantically in the air, but there was nothing to hold onto and he landed on the hard rock floor with a thud.

  Haplo glanced down at the balding middle-aged man who lay in a pathetic heap at his feet. “Yeah, you do that,” the Patryn said, grinning. “You stop me.” Lounging against the wall, he turned his attention to the parley.

  “What is it you want of us?” the young necromancer was asking, once the formalities of introduction had been effected.

  The prince recited his story, telling it well, with dignity and pride. He made no accusations against the people of Kairn Necros but took care to attribute the wrongs his own people had suffered to mischance or ignorance of the true situation.

  The Sartan language, even in its corrupt form, is adept at conjuring up images in the mind. By his expression, it was obvious that the young necromancer saw far beneath the surface of Edmund's words. The young man attempted to keep his face impassive, but a flutter of doubt and self-conscious guilt brought a crease to the smooth forehead and a slight tremor to the lips. He glanced swiftly at the female standing motionless at the rear of the army, inviting her help.

  The woman, understanding, glided forward and arrived in time to hear the end of the prince's tale.

  Removing the cowl from her head with a graceful motion of two fair hands, the woman turned a soft-eyed gaze on Edmund. “Truly, you have suffered much. I am sorry for you and for your people.”

  The prince bowed. “Your compassion does you honor, mistress—”

  “Madam,” she corrected him, glancing, with a smile, at the necromancer standing beside her. “My public name1 is Jera. This man is my husband, Jonathan of the ducal House of Rift Ridge.”

  “My Lord Jonathan, you are blessed in your wife,” said Edmund with courtesy. “And you, Your Grace, in your husband.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness. Your story is indeed a sorrowful one,” Jera continued. “And I fear that my people are, in many ways, responsible for your misfortune—”

  “I spoke no word of blame,” said Edmund.

  “No, Your Highness.” The woman smiled. “But it is all too easy to see accusation in the images your words conjure. I do not believe, however”—a frown creased the marble-smooth forehead—“that the dynast will take kindly to his subjects coming to him as beggars—”

  Edmund drew himself up tall and straight. Baltazar, who had previously said no word, glowered dourly, black brows drawn tight, black eyes reflecting the lurid red of the magma sea.

  “Dynast!” Baltazar repeated incredulously. “What dynast? And to whom do you refer as subjects? We are an independent monarchy—”

  “Peace, Baltazar.” Edmund laid his hand on the wizard's arm. “Your Grace, we do not come to beg of our brethren.” He emphasized the word. “Among our dead we number farmers, skilled artisans, warriors. We ask only to be given the chance to work, to earn our bread and shelter in your city.”

  The woman stared at him. “Truly, you didn't know you were under the jurisdiction of Our Most Holy Dynastic Majesty?”

  “Your Grace”—Edmund appeared embarrassed at being forced to contradict—“I am the ruler of my people, their only ruler—”

  “But, then, of course!” Jera clasped her hands together, her expression bright and eager. “That explains everything. It's all a dreadful misunderstanding! You must come immediately to the capital, Your Highness, and make your obeisance to His Majesty. My husband and I will be honored to escort you and give you introduction.”

  “Obeisance!” Baltazar's black beard stood out against his livid complexion. “It is rather for this self-proclaimed dynast—”

  “I thank you for your gracious invitation, Duchess Jera.” Edmund's hand clasped his minister's arm with slightly more pressure than must have been exactly comfortable. “The honor in accompanying you is mine. I cannot leave my people, however, with a hostile army camped before them.”

  “We will withdraw our army,” offered the duke, “if you pledge your word that your army will not sail across the sea.”

  “Since my army has no ships, such a feat is impossible, Your Grace.”

  “Begging Your Highness's pardon, a ship is docked at Safe Harbor. We have never seen its like before and we assumed that it—”

  “Ah, now I understand!” Edmund nodded, glanced back at Haplo and Alfred. “You saw the ship and thought we intended to sail our army across the sea. As you mentioned, Your Grace, there is much misunderstanding among us. The ship belongs to two strangers, who landed at Safe Harbor just this cycle. We were pleased to entertain them with what hospitality we could, although,” the prince added, flushing, pride vying with shame, “they gave us more than we could offer them.”

  Alfred clambered to his feet. Haplo stood straight. The duchess turned to them. Her face, although not beautiful by any purity or regularity of feature, was made attractive by an expression of singular intelligence and an obviously strong and resolute will. The eyes, a green-flecked brown, were exceedingly fine, reflecting the quickness of the mind that moved behind them. Her gaze flicked over the two strangers and Jera immediately picked out Haplo as the ship's owner.

  “We passed your vessel, sir, and found it extremely interesting—”

  “What type of runes are those?” her husband interjected with boyish eagerness. “I've never seen—”

  “My dear,” his wife interposed gently, “this is hardly the time or place for discussions of rune-lore. Prince Edmund will want to inform his people of the honor that awaits him in being presented to His Dynastic Majesty. We will meet you in Safe Harbor, Your Highness, at your convenience.” Jera's green eyes focused on Haplo and, behind him, Alfred. “It would be our honor, as well, to introduce these strangers to our fair city.”

  Haplo regarded the woman thoughtfully. This prince hadn't known him for the ancient enemy, but the Patryn had come to realize, by this conversation, that Edmund's people were nothing more than a small satellite circling a larger and brighter sun. A sun that might be much better informed.

  I could leave now and no one would ever blame me, not even My Lord. But he and I both would always know that I turned tail and ran.

  The Patryn bowed. “It is we who would be honored, Your Grace.”

  Smiling at him, Jera glanced back at the prince. “We will send word ahead of your coming, Your Highness, in order that all may be in readiness to receive you.”

  “You are most kind, Your Grace,” Edmund replied.

  Everyone made final polite bows, then the group separated. The duke and duchess returned to their dead army, herded them together (several had wandered away during the
talks), prodded them into formation, and headed them back toward Safe Harbor.

  Baltazar and the prince reentered the cavern. “A dynast,” the necromancer was saying in grim tones. “The people of the sovereign nation of Kairn Telest are nothing but his subjects! Tell me now, Edmund, that the inhabitants of Necropolis brought disaster to us in ignorance!”

  The prince was obviously troubled. His eyes went to the far distant city, barely visible beneath the mass of clouds hanging low over it. “What can I do, Baltazar? What can I do for our people if I don't go?”

  “I'll tell you, Your Highness! These two”—the necromancer gestured at Haplo and Alfred—“know the location of Death's Gate. These two came through it!”

  The prince gazed at them with wondering, astonished eyes. “Death's Gate? Did you? Is it possible that—”

  Haplo shook his head. “It wouldn't work, Your Highness. It's a long, long way from here. You'd need ships, a lot of ships, to transport your people.”

  “Ships!” Edmund smiled sadly. “We have no food, and you talk of ships. Tell me,” he added, after a pause. “Do the city people know about … Death's Gate?”

  “How should I know, Your Highness?” Haplo answered, shrugging.

  “if he's telling the truth,” hissed Baltazar. “And we can get ships! They have ships!” He nodded his head toward Necropolis.

  “And how will we pay for them, Baltazar?”

  “Pay, Your Highness! Haven't we paid already? Haven't we paid with our lives?” the necromancer demanded, fist clenched. “I say it's time we take what we want! Don't go crawling to them, Edmund! Lead us to them! Lead us to war!”

  “No! They”—the prince gestured to the departing duke and duchess—“were sympathetic to us. We have no reason to believe the dynast will be less eager to listen and to understand. I will try peaceful means first.”

  “ ‘We,’ Your Highness. I'm going with you, of course—” “No.” Edmund took the necromancer by the hand. “You stay with the people. If anything happens to me, you will be their leader.”

  “At last your heart speaks, Your Highness.” Baltazar was bitter, sorrowful.

  “I truly believe all will be well. But I would be a poor ruler if I did not provide for contingencies.” Edmund continued to press the man's hand. “I may rely on you, My Friend? More than friend, mentor … my other father?”

  “You may rely on me, Your Highness.” The last part of the necromancer's sentence was little more than a choked whisper.

  Edmund walked back to confer with his people. Baltazar remained behind a moment in the shadows to compose himself.

  When the prince was gone, the necromancer raised his head. Ravages of a terrible, heart-wrenching grief had aged the pallid face. The stabbing black-eyed gaze struck Alfred, passed through the trembling body of the Sartan, and bored into Haplo.

  / am not an evil man. But I am a desperate one. Haplo heard the necromancer's words echo in the fire-lighted darkness.

  “Yes, My Prince,” Baltazar promised fervently, softly. “You may rely fully on me. Our people will be safe!”

  1 Sartan have two names, private and public. As Alfred told Haplo previously in the story, a Sartan's private name can give those who know it power over them. A Sartan's private name, therefore, would be revealed only to those he or she loved and trusted.

  CHAPTER 18

  NECROPOLIS,

  ABARRACH

  “A MESSAGE, YOUR MAJESTY, FROM JONATHAN, THE DUKE of Rift Ridge.”

  “Duke of Rift Ridge? Isn't he dead?”

  “The younger, Your Majesty. You recall, Sire, that you sent him and his wife to deal with those invaders on the far shore—”

  “Ah, yes. Quite.” The dynast frowned. “This is in regard to the invaders?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Clear the court,” the dynast commanded.

  The Lord High Chancellor, knowing that this matter would be dealt with circumspectly, had deliberately spoken in low tones, intended for His Majesty's ears alone. The order to clear the court came as no surprise, nor did it present difficulty. The Lord High Chancellor had only to meet the eyes of the ever-watchful chamberlain to have the matter accomplished.

  A staff banged on the floor. “His Majesty's audience is ended,” announced the chamberlain.

  Those with petitions to present rolled their scrolls up with a snap, tucked them back into scroll cases, made their bows, and backed out of the throne room. Those who were merely court hangers-on, who spent as much time near His Dynastic Majesty as possible, hoping for notice from the royal eye, yawned, stretched, and proposed to each other games of rune-bone to ease them through another boring day. The royal cadavers, extremely well preserved and well maintained, escorted the assembly out of the throne room into the vast corridors of the royal palace, shut the doors, and took up positions before them, indicating that His Majesty was in private conference.

  When the throne room no longer buzzed with conversation and affected laughter, the dynast commanded, with a wave of his hand, that the Lord High Chancellor was to commence. The Lord High Chancellor did so. Opening a scroll, he began to read.

  “His Grace's most reverent respect—”

  “Skip all that.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  It took some moments for the Lord High Chancellor to make his way through compliments showered on the dynast's person, compliments showered on his illustrious ancestors, compliments showered on the dynast's just rule, and so forth and so on. The chancellor finally found the heart of the message and delivered it.

  “ The invaders come from the outer circle, Your Majesty, a land known as Kairn Telest, the Green Caverns, due to the … er … former amount of vegetation grown in that region. Of late, it seems, this region has experienced bad fortune. The magma river has cooled, the people's water source has dried up.’ The Green Caverns, it seems, Your Majesty,” the Lord High Chancellor added, looking up from his perusal of the message, “could now be called the Bone-Bare1 Caverns.”

  His Majesty said nothing, merely grunted in acknowledgment of the Lord High Chancellor's wit. The Lord High Chancellor resumed his reading. “ ‘Due to this disaster, the people of Kairn Telest have been forced to flee their land. They have encountered innumerable perils on the journey, including—’ ”

  “Yes, yes,” said the dynast impatiently. He fixed his Lord High Chancellor with a shrewd look. “Does the duke mention why these people of the Green Caverns felt it necessary to come here!”

  The Lord High Chancellor hastily scanned the message to the end, read it over again to make certain he'd made no mistake—the dynast had a low tolerance for mistakes—then shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. It might almost seem, from the tone, that these people stumbled on Necropolis by accident.”

  “Hah!” The dynast's lips parted in a thin, cunning smile. He shook his head. “They know, Pons. They know! Well, go on. Give us the gist of it. What are their demands?”

  “They make no demands, Your Majesty. Their leader, a Prince”—the Lord High Chancellor referred again to the paper to refresh his memory—“Edmund of some unknown house requests the opportunity to pay his respects to Your Dynastic Majesty. The duke adds in a concluding note that the people of Kairn Telest appear to be in a most wretched state. It has occurred to the duke that it is probable we are in some way responsible for the aforesaid disasters and he hopes Your Majesty will meet with the prince at your earliest opportunity.”

  “Is this young duke of Rift Ridge dangerous, Pons? Or is the man merely stupid?”

  The Lord High Chancellor paused to consider the question. “I don't consider him dangerous, Your Majesty. Nor is he stupid. He is young, idealistic, ingenuous. A touch naive as concerns politics. He is, after all, the younger son and was not raised to have the responsibilities of the dukedom thrust on him so suddenly. Words come from the heart, not his head. I am certain he has no idea what he is saying.”

  “His wife, though, is another matter.”

&nb
sp; The Lord High Chancellor appeared grave. “I am afraid so, Your Majesty. Duchess Jera is extremely intelligent.”

  “And her father, deuce take him, continues to be a confounded nuisance.”

  “But that is all he is these cycles, Sire. Banishing him to the Old Provinces was a stroke of genius. The earl must do everything in his power merely to survive. He is too weak to cause trouble.”

  “A stroke of genius for which we have you to thank, Pons. Oh, yes, we remember. You needn't keep reminding us of it. And that old man may be struggling to survive but he has enough breath left in him to continue to speak out against us.”

  “But who is listening? Your subjects are loyal. They love Your Majesty …”

  “Stop it, Pons. We get enough of that muck shoveled over our feet from everyone else around here. We expect some sense from you.”

  The Lord High Chancellor bowed, grateful for the dynast's good opinion; knowing, however, that the flower of royalty would cease to grow unless it was nurtured by the aforementioned muck.

  The dynast had withdrawn his attention from his minister. Rising from the throne made of gold and diamonds and the other precious minerals that were so abundant in this world, His Majesty took a turn or two around the large gold-and-silver-inlaid dais. Pacing was a habit of the dynast's; he claimed that movement aided his thought processes. Often the dynast completely discomfited those presenting suits to him by leaping up from the throne and circling it several times before returning to it to pronounce judgment.

  At least it kept the courtiers on their toes, Pons reflected with some amusement. Whenever His Majesty rose to his feet, everyone in the court was expected to cease conversation and perform the ritual, reverent obeisance. Courtiers were forever called on to cease their conversation, fold their hands in their sleeves, and bow with heads practically to the floor whenever His Majesty took it into his head to walk out a problem.

  Pacing was just one of the dynast's many little eccentricities, the most notable of these being a love of tournament combat and an addiction to the game of rune-bone. Any of the new dead who had been at all proficient in either game during their lives were brought to the palace, where they performed no other service except to offer His Majesty sparring partners during the waking half of the cycle or play at rune-bone with His Majesty far into the sleeping half. Such peculiarities led many to misjudge the dynast, considering him nothing but a shallow-minded gamester. Pons, having seen those many fall, was not among them. His respect for and his fear of His Dynastic Majesty were both deep and well founded.