The last words were not spoken aloud. There was no need. They hissed in the air like the gas that lit the lamps.
“We were right, you see. Pens,” said Kleitus. “A beggar.”
The chancellor could not help but sigh. The prince, in his youth and beauty, graced by compassion for his people, had a majesty about him that lifted him in stature and in rank far above most kings, let alone beggars.
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.
24
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!”