“Pons was in such haste to get you back to the dynast—here, allow me to help you up—he neglected to renew the dead’s instructions. You have to do that periodically or they do what this lot did. They revert back to acting from memory, their own memories.”
“But they were taking us to the palace—”
“Yes. They would have managed that task quite adequately. Clung to it tenaciously, in fact. One reason we didn’t dare try to get rid of them ourselves. As it was, that other necromancer confused them enough to break the thin thread still attaching them to their orders. The smallest distraction can send them back to bygone days. That’s one reason the monitors are posted around town. They take charge of any dead who’re wandering about aimlessly. Look out for that cart! Are you all right? Just a bit farther, then we should be through the worst of the traffic.”
Jera and Jonathan hustled Alfred along at a rapid rate, each glancing nervously about as they did so. They kept to the shadows when possible, avoiding the pools of light cast by the gas lamps.
“Will they come after us?”
“You may be sure of that!” the duke said emphatically. “Once the guards return to the palace, Pons will have fresh guards sent out with our descriptions. We must reach the gate before they do.”
Alfred said nothing more—he couldn’t say anything more, he didn’t have breath left to say it. The passage through Death’s Gate, followed by the emotional upheaval of the cycles’ shocking events and the constant drain on his magic to help him survive, rendered the Sartan weak to the point of collapse. Blindly, wearily, he stumbled along where he was led.
He had only a vague impression of arriving at another gate, of emerging thankfully from the maze of tunnels, of Jera and Jonathan answering questions put to them by a dead guard, of hearing that someone was taken ill and wondering vaguely who, of a large fur-covered body of a pauka appear out of the mist, of falling, face first, into a carriage and hearing, as in a dream, the voice of Jera saying, “... my father’s house . . .” and of the eternal, horrible darkness of this dreadful world closing over him.
23
“And, so, Pons, you lost him,” said the dynast, idly sipping at a potent, fiery, red-hued liquor known as stalagma, the favored after-dinner drink of His Majesty.
“I am sorry. Sire, but I had no idea I would be responsible for transporting five prisoners. I thought there would be only one, the prince, and that I would take charge of him personally. I had to rely on the dead. There was no one else.”
The Lord High Chancellor was not concerned. The dynast was fair-minded and would not hold his minister responsible for the inadequacies of the cadavers. The Sartan of Abarrach had learned long ago to understand the limits of the dead. The living tolerated the cadavers, responding to them with patience and fortitude, much as fond parents tolerate the inadequacies of their children.
“A glass, Pons?” asked the dynast, waving off the cadaver servant and offering to fill a small golden cup with his own hands. “Quite an excellent flavor.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Pons, who detested stalagma but who wouldn’t have dreamed of offending the dynast by refusing to drink with him. “Will you see the prisoners now?”
“What is the hurry, Pons? It is nearly time for our rune-bone game. You know that.”
The chancellor gulped down the bitter-tasting liquid as swiftly as possible, fought a moment to catch his breath, and mopped his sweating forehead with a handkerchief.
“The Lady Jera mentioned something, Sire, about the prophecy.”
Kleitus paused in the act of lifting the glass to his lips. “Did she? When?”
“After the stranger had ... er ... done whatever he did to the captain of the guard.”
“But you said he ‘killed’ it, Pons. The prophecy speaks of bringing life to the dead.” The dynast drank off the liquor, tossing it to the back of his throat and swallowing it immediately, as did all experienced stalagma drinkers. “Not ending it.”
“The duchess has a way of twisting words to suit her own convenience, Sire. Consider the rumors that she could spread concerning this stranger. Consider what the stranger himself might do to make the people believe in him.”
“True, true.” Kleitus frowned, at first worried. Then he shrugged. “We know where he is and with whom.” The stalagma put him in a relaxed mood.
“We could send in troops ...” suggested the chancellor.
“And have the earl’s faction up in arms? Ifs possible they might join these rebels from Kairn Telest. No, Pons, we will continue to handle this matter subtly. It could give us the excuse we need to put that meddlesome earl and his duchess daughter out of the way for good. We trust you took the usual precautions, Pons?”
“Yes, Sire. The matter is already in hand.”
“Then why worry over nothing? By the way, who takes over the ducal lands of Rift Ridge if young Jonathan should die untimely?”
“He has no children. The wife would inherit—”
The dynast made a fatigued gesture. Pons lowered his eyelids, indicative of understanding.
“In that case, his estate reverts to the crown, Your Majesty.”
Kleitus nodded, motioned to a servant to pour him another glass. When the cadaver had done so and withdrawn, the dynast lifted his cup, prepared to enjoy the liquor. His gaze caught that of his chancellor and, with a sigh, he set the glass back down.
“What is it, Pons? That sour face of yours is ruining our enjoyment of this excellent vintage.”
“I beg your pardon, Sire, but I wonder if you are taking this matter seriously enough.” The chancellor drew nearer, speaking in an undertone, although they were quite alone, apart from the cadavers. “The other man I brought in with the prince is extraordinary in his own way! Perhaps more so than the one who escaped. I think you should see this prisoner immediately.”
“You’ve been dropping vague hints about this man. Spit it out, Pons! What’s so ... extraordinary . . . about him?”
The chancellor paused, considering how to produce the greatest impact. “Your Majesty, I’ve seen him before.”
“I am aware of your extensive social connections, Pons.” Stalagma tended to make Kleitus sarcastic.
“Not in Necropolis, Sire. Nor anywhere around here. I saw him this morning ... in the vision.”
The dynast returned the glass, its contents left untasted, to the tray at his elbow.
“We will see him . . . and the prince.”
Pons bowed. “Very good, Sire. Shall they be brought here or to the audience chamber?”
The dynast glanced around the room. Known as the gaming room, it was much smaller and more intimate than the grand audience hall and was well lighted by several ornate gas lamps. Numerous kairn-grass tables had been placed around the room. On top of each were four stacks of rectangular white bones adorned with red and blue runes. Tapestries lined the walls, portraying various famous battles that had been fought on Abarrach. The room was dry, cozy, and warm, heated by steam that swirled through wrought-iron, gold-trimmed pipes.
The entire palace was heated by steam, a modern addition. In ancient times, the palace—originally a fortress and one of the earliest structures built by the first-arriving Sartan—had not been dependent on mechanical means to provide comfortable living conditions. Traces of the old runes could be seen to this day in the ancient parts of the palace, sigla that had provided warmth, light, and fresh air to the people dwelling within. Most of these runes, their use forgotten through neglect, had been deliberately obliterated. The royal consort considered them an ugly eyesore.
“We will meet our guests here.” Kleitus, another glass of stalagma in hand, took a seat at one of the gaming tables, and began idly setting up the rune-bones as if in preparation for a game.