The dynast leaned forward, fingertips touching. “You'll find no succor in Necropolis, Edmund, prince of beggars.”
The prince rose to his feet, suppressed anger leaving patches of chill white in the feverish crimson of his skin.
“Then there is nothing more to say. I will return to my people.”
Haplo stood up. “Sorry to break up the game, but I'm with him,” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the prince.
“Yes, you are,” said the dynast in a soft and menacing tone that only Pons heard. “I suppose this means war, Your Highness?”
The prince didn't stop walking. He was halfway across the room, Haplo at his side. “I told you, Sire, my people do not want to fight. We will travel on, perhaps proceed farther down the shoreline. If we had ships—”
“Ships!” Kleitus sucked in a breath. “Now we come to it! The truth. That's what you've been after all along! Ships, to find Death's Gate! Fool! You will find nothing except death!”
The dynast gestured to one of the armed guards, who nodded in response. Lifting his spear, the cadaver aimed and threw.
Edmund sensed the threat, whirled around, raised his hand in an attempt to ward off the attack. Futile. He saw his death coming. The spear struck him full in the chest with such force that the point shattered the breastbone and emerged from the man's back, pinned him to the floor. The prince died the instant the blow was struck, died without a scream. The sharp iron tore apart the heart.
By the expression of sadness on the face, his last thoughts had been, perhaps, not of regret for his own young life, cut tragically short, but of how he had failed his people.
Kleitus gestured again, motioned toward Haplo. Another cadaver raised its spear.
“Stop him,” the Patryn said, in a quick, tight voice, “or you'll never learn anything about Death's Gate!”
“Death's Gate!” Kleitus repeated softly, staring at Haplo. “Halt!”
The cadaver, arrested in the act of throwing the spear, let it slip from the dead hand. It fell, clattering, to the floor, the only sound to break the tense silence.
“What,” demanded the dynast at last, “do you know of Death's Gate?”
“That you'll never get through it if you kill me,” returned Haplo.
CHAPTER 24
NECROPOLIS,
ABARRACH
IT HAD BEEN A GAMBLE, BRINGING UP THE SUBJECT OF Death's Gate. The dynast might have blinked once, shrugged his shoulders, and ordered the cadaver to pick up the dropped spear and try again.
Haplo wasn't risking his life. His magic would protect him from the spear's deadly point, unlike the poor devil of a prince, who lay sprawled dead on the floor at the Patryn's feet. It was the revelation of his potent magical power that Haplo sought to avoid, one reason he'd faked unconsciousness when that cadaver had attacked him on the road.
Unfortunately, he hadn't counted on Alfred rushing to his rescue. Damn the man! The one time fainting would have been beneficial, the blasted Sartan weaves some inexplicably complex and powerful magical spell that stands everyone's hair on end. It was always better, Haplo had learned, to encourage your enemy to underestimate you rather than overestimate. You were far more likely to catch him napping.
But at least this gamble had apparently paid off. Kleitus hadn't blinked and shrugged. He knew about Death's Gate, would almost have had to know about it. Obviously intelligent, a powerful necromancer, such a man would certainly have looked for and found any ancient records those early Sartan had left.
His “opening bid” strategy flashed through Haplo's mind while the prince's splattered blood was still warm on the Patryn's rune-covered skin.
The dynast had recovered his composure, was affecting indifference. “Your corpse will provide me with whatever information I might require, including information about this so-called Death's Gate.”
“It might,” Haplo countered. “Or it might not. My magic is kin to yours, that's true, but different. Far different. Necromancy has never been practiced among my people and there could be a reason for it. Once the brain that controls these sigla”—he held up his arm—“is dead, the magic dies. Unlike you, my physical being is inextricably bound with the magic. Separate one from the other and you may have a cadaver who can't even remember its name, much less anything else.”
“What makes you think we care what you remember?”
“Ships, to find Death's Gate. Those were the words you used, almost the last words this poor fool heard.” Haplo gestured at Edmund's torn body. “Your world's dying. But you know it isn't the end. You know about the other worlds. And you're right. They exist. I've been there. And I can take you back with me.”
The cadaver had picked up the spear and was holding it ready, aimed for Haplo's heart. The dynast made an abrupt gesture, and the cadaver lowered the weapon, brought it down butt end against the cavern floor, and resumed standing at attention.
“Don't harm him. Take him to the dungeon,” ordered Kleitus. “Pons, take both of them to the dungeons. We must think this matter through.”
“The prince's body, Sire. Shall we send it to oblivion?”
“Where are your brains, Pons?” the dynast demanded irritably. “Of course not! His people will declare war against us. The corpse will tell us everything we need to know to plan our defense. The Kairn Telest must be destroyed utterly, of course. Then, you may send the beggar to oblivion along with the rest of his clan. Keep his death hushed up the requisite number of waiting days until we can safely reanimate him. We don't want that rabble to strike before we're ready.”
“And how long would you suggest, Sire?”
Kleitus gave the body a professional evaluation. “A man of his youth and vigor with a strong hold on life, a passage of three days will be necessary to make certain the phantasm is tractable. We will be performing the raising ritual ourselves, of course. It's liable to be a bit tricky. One of the dungeon necromancers can perform the preservation rites.”
The dynast left the room, walking rapidly, the skirts of his robes flapping about his ankles in his haste.
Probably, thought Haplo with an inward grin, going straight to the library or wherever it is the ancient records are kept.
Cadavers hastened over at Pons's command. Two guards removed the spear from the body of the prince, lifted it between them and bore it away. Dead servants brought water and soap to cleanse the blood from floor and walls. Haplo stood patiently off to one side, observing the proceedings. The chancellor, he noticed, kept avoiding looking at him. Pons fussed about the room, exclaimed loudly over bloodstains on one of the wall tapestries, made a major production of dispatching servants in search of powdered kairn grass to sprinkle on it.
“Well, I suppose that's all that can be done.” Pons heaved a sigh. “I don't know what I'm going to say to Her Majesty when she sees this!”
“You might suggest to her husband that there are less violent ways of killing a man,” suggested Haplo.
The chancellor gave an unaffected start, glanced about fearfully at the Patryn. “Oh, it's you!” He sounded almost relieved. “I didn't realize—forgive me. We have so few living prisoners. I'd quite forgotten you weren't a cadaver. Here, I’LL take you down myself. Guards!”
Pons gestured. Two cadavers hurried to his side and all of them, chancellor and Haplo in front, guards behind, left the game room.
“You appear to be a man of action,” said the chancellor, glancing at Haplo. “You didn't hesitate to attack that armed soldier who killed your dog. The death of the prince offended you?”
Offended? One Sartan killing another in cold blood? Amused, maybe, not offended. Haplo told himself that was how he should feel. But he looked with distaste at the blood spattered on his clothing, rubbed it off with the back of his hand.
“The prince was only doing what he thought was right. He didn't deserve to be murdered.”
“It was not murder,” retorted Pons crisply. “Prince Edmund's life belonged to the dynast, as do the lives of
all His Majesty's subjects. The dynast decided that the young man would prove more valuable to him dead than alive.”
“He might have allowed the young man to give his opinion on the subject,” Haplo observed dryly.
The Patryn was attempting to pay close attention to his whereabouts, but he'd become immediately lost in the maze of identical, interconnecting tunnels. He recognized they were descending only by the slope of the smooth cavern floor. Soon, the gaslights were left behind. Crude torches burned in sconces on the damp walls. Haplo could see, by the flaring light, faint traces of runes running along the walls at floor level. Ahead of him, he heard the echoing sound of footsteps, heavy and shuffling, as if bearing a burden. The prince's body, going to its not-so-final resting place.
The chancellor was frowning. “I find it very difficult to understand you, sir. Your words come to me out of a cloud of darkness, shot with lightning. I see violence in you, violence that makes me shudder, makes my blood run cold. I see vaunting ambition, the desire for power achieved by any means. You are no stranger to death. Yet I sense that you are deeply disturbed by what was, in reality, the execution of a rebel and a traitor.”
“We don't kill our own,” Haplo said softly.
“I beg your pardon?” Pons leaned nearer. “What was that?”
“I said, ‘We don't kill our own,’ “ Haplo repeated shortly, succinctly. He snapped his mouth shut, troubled, angry at being troubled. And he didn't much like the way everyone around here seemed to be able to stare into the heart and soul of everyone else.
I'm going to welcome prison, he thought. Welcome the soothing, cooling darkness, welcome the silence. He needed the darkness, needed the quiet. He needed time to reflect and think, decide on a course of action. He needed time to sort out and quash these disturbing and confusing thoughts. Which reminded him. He needed a question answered.
“What's this I heard about a prophecy?”
“Prophecy?” Pons's eyes slid sideways to Haplo, slid rapidly away again. “When did you hear about a prophecy?”
“Right after your guard tried to kill me.”
“Ah, but you'd only just regained consciousness. You had suffered a severe injury.”
“My hearing wasn't injured. The duchess said something about a prophecy. I wondered what she meant.”
“Prophecy.” The chancellor tapped a finger thoughtfully on his chin. “Let me see if I can remember. I must admit, now I come to think of it, that I was rather baffled by her mentioning the subject. I can't imagine what she was thinking! There have been so many prophecies given to our people over the past centuries, you see. We use them to amuse the children.”
Haplo'd seen the look on the chancellor's face when Jera mentioned the prophecy. Pons hadn't been amused.
Before the Patryn could pursue the subject, the chancellor began discussing, with seeming innocence, the runes on the game pieces, obviously trying to wheedle information. Now it was Haplo's turn to dodge Pons's questions. Eventually the chancellor dropped the subject, the two proceeded through the narrow corridors in silence.
The atmosphere of the catacombs was dank and heavy and chill. The smell of decay hung in the air so thickly that Haplo could have sworn he tasted it, like oil on the back of the throat. The only sounds he heard were the footsteps of the dead, leading them on.
“What's this?” came a strange voice suddenly.
The chancellor gasped, involuntarily reached out and grasped hold of Haplo's arm, the living clinging to the living. Haplo himself was disconcerted to feel his heart lurch in his chest and did not rebuke Pons for touching him, although he irritably shook the grasping hand free almost immediately.
A ghostly shape emerged from the shadows into the torchlight.
“Flame and ash, you startled me, preserver!” Pons scolded, mopping his forehead with the sleeve of his black robes, trimmed in green—the mark of his ranking in court. “Don't ever do that again!”
“I beg your pardon, My Lord, but we're not accustomed to seeing the living down here.”
The figure bowed. Haplo saw—to his relief, although he didn't like to admit it—that the man was alive.
“You better get used to it,” Pons said in acerbic tones, obviously attempting to compensate for his former weakness. “Here's a live prisoner for you and he's to be well treated, by orders of His Majesty.”
“Live prisoners,” said the preserver, with a cold glance at Haplo, “are a nuisance.”
“I know, I know, but it can't be helped. This one—” Pons drew the preserver to one side, whispered earnestly into the man's ear.
The gaze of both men shifted to tattooed runes on the skin of Haplo's hands and arms. Their stares made his flesh crawl, but he forced himself to stand still beneath the scrutiny. He'd be damned if he'd give them the satisfaction of seeing that they made him uncomfortable.
The preserver didn't appear particularly mollified. “Freak or not, when all's said and done, he has to be fed and watered and watched, doesn't he? And I'm only one man down here during the sleep-half shift, with no help, although I've asked for it often enough.”
“His Majesty is aware … deeply regrets … can't be done at this time …” Pons was murmuring.
The preserver snorted, waved a hand at Haplo, gave an order to one of the dead. “Put the live one in the cell next to the dead one who came in tonight. I can work on one and keep my eye on the other.”
“I'm certain His Majesty will be wanting to speak to you on the morrow,” said the chancellor, by way of bidding Haplo farewell.
I'm certain he will, Haplo answered, but not aloud. He pulled back from the cadaver's touch. “Make that thing keep its hands off me!”
“What did I tell you?” the preserver demanded of Pons. “Come with me, then.”
Haplo and his escort marched past cells occupied by corpses, some of them lying on cold, stone beds, others up and moving aimlessly about. In the shadows, the phantasms could be seen hovering near their corpses, the faint pale glow they gave off softly illuminating the cell's darkness. Iron bars with locked doors prevented escape from the small, cavelike cells.
“You bolt the doors against the dead?” Haplo asked, almost laughing.
The preserver came to halt, fumbled with a key in the door of an empty cell. Glancing at the cell across from him, Haplo saw the prince's corpse, a gaping hole in its chest, being laid out on a stone bier by two cadavers.
“Of course, we keep them locked up! You don't suppose I want them wandering about underfoot? I have enough to do down here as it is. Hurry up. I haven't got all night. That newest arrival isn't getting any fresher. I suppose you'll be wanting something to eat and drink?” The preserver slammed shut the door, glared through the bars at his prisoner.
“Just water.” Haplo didn't have much appetite.
The preserver brought a cup, shoved it through the bars, ladled water from a bucket into it. Haplo took a drink, spit it out. The water tasted decayed, like everything smelled. Using the remainder, he washed the prince's blood from his hands and arms and legs.
The preserver glowered, as if he considered this a waste of good water, but said nothing. He was obviously in haste to begin his work on the prince. Haplo lay down on the hard stone, cushioned by a few handfuls of scattered kairn grass.
A Sartan chant rose high-pitched and grating, echoing thinly through the cells. At the sound, it seemed another chant arose, almost unheard, a ghastly wailing groan of unutterable sorrow. The phantasms, Haplo told himself. But the sounds reminded him of the dog, of that last pain-filled yelp. He saw the eyes looking at him, confident that its master would be there to help, as Haplo had always been there. Faithful, believing in him, to the end.
Haplo grit his teeth, and blotted the sight from his mind. Digging his hand into his pocket, he drew out one of the rune-bones he'd managed to palm during the game. He couldn't see it, in the darkness, but he turned it over in his hand, fingers tracing the sigla carved into the surface.
CHAPTER 25
ABARRACH
“AND THEN, FATHER,” SAID JERA, “THE PHANTASM BEGAN to take shape and form—” “Become solid, Daughter?”
“No.” Jera hesitated, thoughtful, frowning, trying to put her memories into words. “It remained ethereal, translucent. If I tried to touch it, my hand would feel nothing. But yet I could see … features, details. The insignia he wore on his breastplate, the shape of his nose, battle scars on his arms. Father, I could see the man's eyes! Yes, his eyes! He looked at me, looked at all of us. And it was as if he'd won a great victory. Then, he … disappeared.”
Jera spread her hands. So provocative were her. words and so eloquent her gesture that Alfred could almost see again the diaphanous figure dwindle and fade like morning mist beneath an ever-shining sun.
“You should have seen,” added Jonathan with his warm, boyish laugh, “the expression on old Pons's face!”
“Mmmm, yes,” muttered the earl.
Jera flushed delicately. “Husband dear, this matter is really quite serious.”
“I know, darling, I know.” Jonathan struggled to regain his self-composure. “But you have to admit, it was funny …”
A smile crept over Jera's lips. “More wine, Papa,” she said, and hastily moved to fill her father's glass.
When she thought the earl wasn't watching, Jera shook her head in fond, mock reproof at her husband, who grinned back at her and winked.
The earl saw and wasn't amused. Alfred had the uncomfortable impression there wasn't much that went on around him that the earl didn't see. A dried-up, wizened husk of a man, the earl kept his beady black-eyed gaze constantly darting about the room, then suddenly sent the darts into Alfred.
“I'd like to see you do that spell of yours.” The earl spoke as if Alfred had performed a rather ingenious card trick. The earl leaned forward in his chair, balancing himself on sharp-pointed elbows. “Do it again. I'll call one of the cadavers. Which one, Daughter, can we afford to spare—”
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