NECROPOLIS, ABARRACH

HAPLO PROPPED HIMSELF up on one elbow and gazed out the bars of his prison cell at the body of the prince, lying in the cell across from him. The preserver had done his job well. No grotesque stiffening of the limbs, face muscles relaxed; Edmund might have been peacefully sleeping, except for the gaping, bloody hole in the chest. The preserver had been ordered to leave the wound, visible evidence of the prince’s terrible manner of death and one guaranteed to inflame his people to war when the cadaver was returned.

The Patryn rolled over on his back, made himself as comfortable as he could on the hard stone bed, and wondered how long it would be before the dynast came to pay him a visit.

“You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” The preserver, passing by the cell, on his way home after his cycle’s duty, paused to stare at Haplo. “I’ve seen corpses more restless. That one, for example”—the preserver motioned gloomily at the prince—“will be a handful when it comes back to life. They keep forgetting they’re locked up and crash into the bars. Then, when I make them understand, they pace: back and forth and back and forth. Then they forget again and hurl themselves against the bars. While you—lying there as if you hadn’t a care in the world.”

Haplo shrugged. “A waste of energy. Why wear myself out?”

The preserver shook his head and left, glad to return to his home and family after a long and arduous shift. If he had the suspicion that Haplo wasn’t telling all he knew, the preserver was right. A prison is a prison only to a man who can’t escape. And Haplo could have walked out of his cell any time he chose.

It suited his purpose to stay.

Kleitus was not long in coming. He was accompanied by Pons. It was the chancellor’s duty to make certain that prisoner and ruler were not disturbed in their conversation. Pons slid his arm through the arm of the highly astonished wake-time preserver, who was making herself dizzy by repeated bowings and scrapings, and led her away. The only ones to overhear the dynast’s conversation with his prisoner were the dead.

Kleitus stood outside Haplo’s cell door, intently regarding the man inside. The dynast’s face was shadowed by the hood of his purplish black robes. Haplo could not see the expression. But he sat quietly, gazing calmly back at the dynast.

Kleitus opened the cell door with a gesture of his hand and a spoken rune. Everyone else used a key. Haplo wondered if this magical show was intended to impress him. The Patryn, who could have dissolved the cell doors with a gesture and a rune, grinned.

The dynast glided inside, glanced around with distaste. There was nowhere for him to sit. Haplo slid to one side of the stone bed, patted it with his hand. Kleitus stiffened, as if to ask if the Patryn were joking. Haplo shrugged.

“No one sits while we stand,” said Kleitus coldly.

Several appropriate remarks came to Haplo’s tongue, but he swallowed them. No use antagonizing this man. The two of them were, after all, going to be traveling companions. Haplo slowly rose to his feet.

“Why did you come here?” Kleitus asked, lifting long-fingered, delicate hands and folding back the cowl so that his face was visible.

“Your soldiers brought me,” Haplo replied.

The dynast smiled faintly, clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk about the cell. He made one complete turn—which didn’t take long, the cell being extremely cramped—paused, and stared at Haplo.

“We meant, why did you come through Death’s Gate to this world?”

The question took Haplo by surprise. He’d expected “Where is Death’s Gate?” or perhaps “How did you get through it?” but not “why.” The truth, or at least part of the truth, was necessary in answering. And they’d probably find it out anyway, because every word Haplo spoke seemed to create clouds of images in the brains of these Sartan.

“My Lord sent me, Your Majesty,” Haplo replied.

Kleitus’s eyes widened. Perhaps he’d caught a glimpse of the Lord of the Nexus from Haplo’s mind. Just as well. He’d know the lord, then, when they met.

“What for? Why did your lord send you?”

“To look around, see how things were going.”

“You’ve been to the other worlds?”

Haplo wasn’t able to keep the images of Arianus and Pryan from flitting across his memory, and from his mind they were certain to enter Kleitus’s.

“Yes, Sire.”

“And what is it like on these other worlds?”

“Wars. Chaos. Turmoil. About what you could expect with the mensch in control.”

“The mensch in control.” Kleitus smiled again, this time politely, as if Haplo had made a bad joke. “Implying, of course, that we here on Abarrach, with our wars and turmoil, are no better than mensch.” He tilted his head, stared down at Haplo from between half-closed eyelids. “Pons told us that you don’t approve of the Sartan on Abarrach. What was it you said, ‘We don’t kill our own kind.’ ”

The dynast’s gaze shifted, moved to the body of the prince lying on the stone in the cell opposite. He glanced back at Haplo, who didn’t have time to rearrange the sardonic sneer on his lips.

Kleitus paled, frowned. “You, the ancient enemy, scion of a race of cruel and barbarous people, whose greed and ambition led to the destruction of our world, you dare pass judgment on us! Yes, you see we know about you. We’ve studied, found reference to you—to your people, rather—in the ancient texts.”

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.

“The prophecy, Your Majesty?”

“Thank you, Pons, You remind us of what is truly important. And the fact that this Haplo knows of the prophecy is of monumental significance.”

“Forgive me, Majesty, but I fail to see—”

“Pons!” Kleitus came to stand in front of his minister. “Think! One comes through Death’s Gate who knows the prophecy. This means that the prophecy is known beyond.”

Light shown on the benighted chancellor. “Your Majesty!”

“This Patryn lord fears us, Pons,” Kleitus said softly, eyes gazing far away, to worlds he had seen only in his mind. “With our necromancy, we have become the most powerful Sartan who have ever lived. That is why he has sent his spies to learn our secrets, to disrupt our world. I see him, waiting for his spies to return. And he will wait in vain!”

“Spies plural. I assume that Your Majesty refers to the other man, the Sartan who destroyed the dead. May I respectfully remind you, Sire, that this man is a Sartan. He is one of us.”

“Is he? Destroying our dead? No, if he is a Sartan, he is one of us turned to evil. It is likely that, over the centuries, the Patryns have corrupted our people. But not us. They will not corrupt us. We must have that Sartan. We must learn how he performed his magic.”

“As I told you before, Sire, he did not use a rune structure that I recognized—”

“Your skills are limited, Pons. You are not a necromancer.”

“True, Sire.” The chancellor admitted this lack quite humbly. Pons knew of and was confident in his own particular area of expertise—how to make himself indispensable to his ruler.

“This Sartan’s magic could prove to be a significant threat. We must know what he did to the corpse that ended its ‘life.’ ”

“Undoubtedly, Sire, but if he is with the earl, capturing this Sartan may prove difficult—”

“Precisely why we will not attempt it. Nor will ‘capture’ be necessary. The duke and duchess are coming to rescue the prince, are they not?”

“According to Tomas, their plans are moving forward.”

“Then, this Sartan we want will come with them.”

“To rescue the prince? Why should he?”

“No, Pons. He will come to rescue his Patryn friend—who, by that time, will be dying.”