Haplo said nothing, waited.
The dynast raised an eyebrow. “Tell us again, why have you come to our world?”
“I’ll tell you again.” The Patryn was growing impatient, decided to get to the point. “My Lord sent me. If you want to ask him why he sent me, you can do that yourself. I’ll take you to him. I was going to propose just such a journey anyway.”
“Indeed? You’d take me through Death’s Gate with you?”
“Not only that, Your Majesty, I’ll show you how to get through it, how to get back. I’ll introduce you to My Lord, show you around my world—”
“And what do you want in return? We don’t suppose, from what we’ve read of your people, that you will perform these services for us out of the goodness of your heart.”
“In return,” Haplo said quietly, “you will teach my people the art of necromancy.”
“Ah.” Kleitus’s gaze went to the runes tattooed on the back of Haplo’s hand. “The one magical skill you do not possess. Well, well. We will consider the idea. We could not, of course, leave when the peace of our city is threatened. You would have to wait until this matter between our people and those of the Kairn Telest is settled.”
Haplo shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m in no hurry.” Kill off more of your people, he suggested silently. The fewer of you Sartan left alive to interfere with My Lord’s plans the better.
Kleitus’s eyes narrowed and Haplo thought for a moment he had gone too far. He wasn’t used to having his mind probed. That fool Alfred had always been far too absorbed with his own worries to try to worm into Haplo’s. I’ll have to watch myself, the Patryn counseled.
“In the interim,” the dynast said slowly, “we hope you won’t mind being our guest. We regret the accommodations aren’t more comfortable. We would offer you a room in the palace, but that would occasion gossip and explanations. Far better if we keep you here, safe and quiet.”
Kleitus started to leave, paused, turned back. “Oh, by the way, that friend of yours—”
“I don’t have any friends,” Haplo said shortly. He had started to sit down, but was now forced to remain standing.
“Indeed? I’m referring to the Sartan who saved your life. The one who destroyed the dead guard about to execute you—”
“That was self-preservation, Your Majesty. I’m the only way he gets back home.”
“Then it wouldn’t concern you to hear that this acquaintance of yours is in collusion with our enemies and has, therefore, placed his life in jeopardy?”
Haplo grinned, sat down on the stone seat. If you’re trying to use threats against Alfred to goad me into talking, Friend, you’re sadly mistaken. “It wouldn’t concern me to hear that Alfred fell into the Fire Sea.”
Kleitus slammed shut the cell door, using his hands this time, not the rune-magic. He began to walk away.
“Oh, by the way, Your Majesty—” Haplo called, scratching at the tattoos on his arm. Two could play at this game.
Kleitus ignored him, continued to walk away.
“I heard something mentioned about a prophecy .. .” Haplo paused, let his words hang in the chill, dank air of the catacombs.
The dynast stopped. He had drawn the cowl up over his head. The hood, turning toward Haplo, shadowed Kleitus’s face. His voice, though he attempted to keep it cold and uncaring, had an edge of sharpened steel to it.
“Well, what about it?”
“Just curious to know what it was. I thought perhaps Your Majesty could tell me.”
The dynast emitted a dry chuckle. “We could spend the remainder of our waking hours relating prophecies to you, Patryn, and half the slumbering hours into the bargain.”
“There’ve been that many, have there?” Haplo marveled.
“That many. And most of them worth about what you might expect—the ravings of half-crazed old men or some dried-up old virgin in a trance. Why do you ask?” The voice probed.
So many, huh? Haplo thought. The prophecy, Jera said, and everyone knew—or seemed to know—exactly what she meant. I wonder why you don’t want to tell me, you crafty dragon-spawn. Perhaps it hits a little too close to home, eh?
“I thought perhaps one of the prophecies might refer to My Lord,” Haplo said, taking a risk.
He didn’t know exactly what he hoped to accomplish with that shot, made completely in the dark. But if he’d intended it to draw blood, apparently he missed his mark. Kleitus didn’t flinch or cringe. He made no comment, but turned as if completely bored with the conversation and walked off down the narrow hallway.
Haplo, listening closely, heard the dynast greet Pons in the same bored, casual tones. The echo of their voices gradually faded in the distance, and the Patryn was left alone with the dead for company.
At least the dead were a quiet group . . . with the exception of that incessant sighing or whining or whatever noise buzzed in his ears.
Haplo threw himself down on the stone bed to consider his conversation with the dynast, going over every word spoken and every word that hadn’t been. The Patryn decided that he’d come out ahead in this first contest of wills. Kleitus wanted off this hunk of rock badly, that much was obvious. He wanted to visit other worlds, wanted to rule other worlds—that, too, was obvious.
“If there were such a thing as a soul, as the ancients believed, this man would sell his for the chance,” Haplo remarked to the dead. “But, in lieu of his soul, he’ll sell me the necromancy. With the dead fighting for him, My Lord will forge his own prophecy!”
He looked across at the still form lying in the cell opposite. “Don’t worry, Your Highness,” Haplo said quietly. “You’ll have your revenge.”
“He’s lying, of course, the cunning devil,” the dynast told Pons, when the two Sartan were again alone in the library, “Trying to make us believe the mensch are in control of the worlds beyond! As if mensch could control anything!”
“But you saw—”
“We saw what he wanted us to see! This Haplo and his partner are spies, sent to discover our weaknesses, betray our strengths. It is this lord of his who rules. We saw the man.” Kleitus fell silent, remembering. Slowly, he nodded his head. “A power to be reckoned with, Pons. An elder wizard of extraordinary skill and discipline and will.”
“You could tell this by viewing him in a vision, Sire?”
“Don’t be an idiot, Pons! We saw him through the eyes of his minion. This Haplo is dangerous, intelligent, skilled in his magical art, barbaric though it may be. He honors and reveres this man he calls ‘his lord’! A man as strong as this Haplo would not give his body and mind to an inferior or even an equal. This lord will be a worthy foe.”
“But if he has worlds at his command, Sire—”
“We have the dead, chancellor. And the art of raising the dead. He doesn’t. His spy admitted it to us. He is trying to induce us to make a bargain.”
“A bargain, Your Majesty?”
“He would lead us to Death’s Gate and we would provide him with the knowledge of necromancy.” Kleitus smiled, thin-lipped, devoid of mirth. “We allowed him to think we were considering it. And he brought up the prophecy, Pons.”
The chancellor gaped. “He did?”
“Oh, he pretends he knows nothing about it. He even asked us to recite it to him! I am certain he knows the truth, Pons. And do you realize what that means?”
“I’m not sure, Sire.” The chancellor was moving warily, not wanting to appear slow of thought. “He was unconscious when the Duchess Jera mentioned it—”
“Unconscious!” Kleitus snorted. “He was no more unconscious than we are! He is a powerful wizard, Pons. He could stroll out of that cell at this moment, if he chose. Fortunately, he believes himself to be in control of the situation.
“No, Pons, he was shamming that entire episode. We’ve been studying their magic, you see.” Kleitus lifted a rune-bone, held it up to the light. “And we think we’re beginning to understand how it works. If those fat, complacent ancestors of ours had taken the trouble to learn more about their enemy, we might have escaped disaster. But what do they do, in their smugness? They turn their paltry knowledge into a game! Bah!” The dynast, in a rare flash of anger, swept the rune-bone pieces from the table to the floor. Rising to his feet, he began to pace.