Tomas frowned when he saw who had hold of him. “What do you want?” he demanded impatiently, shaking free of Alfred’s grip.
“I’m late as it is.”
“Would it be possible—could you speak to your friend in the dungeons and find out the … the condition of my friend?”
“I told you before. He’s alive, just as you said,” Tomas snapped.
“That’s all I know.”
“But you could find out. . . today,” Alfred insisted, somewhat surprised at his own temerity. “I have the feeling he has fallen ill. Gravely ill.”
“Because of the dog!”
“Please . . .”
“Oh, very well. I’ll do what I can. But I don’t promise anything. And now I must be leaving.”
“Thank you, that’s all I—”
But Tomas was gone, hastening out the door and joining the throng of living and dead crowding the streets of Necropolis,
Alfred sat down beside the dog, stroked its soft fur with a soothing hand. The animal was extremely ill.
Later that day, Tomas returned. It was near the dynasfs dining hour, a time when the courtiers, those unfortunates who had not been asked to dinner, departed for their own pleasures.
“Well, what news?” Jera asked. “All is well?”
“All is well,” Tomas answered gravely. “His Majesty will resurrect the prince during the lamp dimming hour.” [1]
“And we have permission to visit the Queen Mother?”
“The queen was most pleased to grant permission herself.”
Jera nodded at her father. “All is ready. I wonder, however, if we shouldn’t—”
Tomas cast a significant glance at Alfred, and the duchess fell silent.
“Excuse me,” Alfred murmured, rising stiffly to his feet. “I’ll leave you alone—”
“No, wait.” Tomas raised his hand, hfis expression grew more grave. “I have news for you, and this affects us all and affects our plans, I’m afraid. I spoke to my friend the sleep-shift preserver, before he left the castle this morning. I am sorry to relate that what you feared, Alfred, is true. Your friend is rumored to be dying.”
*
Poison.
Haplo knew it the moment the first cramps twisted his gut, knew it when the nausea swept over him. He knew it, but he wouldn’t admit it to himself. It made no sense! Why?
Weak from vomiting, he lay on the stone bed, bent double by the clenching pain that stabbed at his vitals with knives of fire. He was parched, suffering from thirst. The waking-shift preserver brought him water. He had just strength enough to dash the cup from her hand. The cup smashed on the rock floor. The preserver withdrew hurriedly. The water seeped rapidly into the cracks in the floor. Haplo collapsed on the bed, watched it disappear, and wondered, Why?
He attempted to heal himself, but his efforts were feeble, halfhearted, and at length he gave up. He’d known from the outset healing wouldn’t work. A cunning and subtle mind—a Sartan mind—had devised his murder. The poison was powerful, acting equally on his magic and his body. The complex, interconnecting circle of runes that was his life’s essence was falling apart and he couldn’t put it back together again. It was as if the edges of the runes were being burned away, they wouldn’t link up. Why? “Why?”
It took Haplo a dazed moment to realize that his question had been repeated out loud. He lifted his head—every movement was fraught with pain, every movement took extraordinary will and effort. His eyes dimming with death’s shadow, he could barely make out the dynast, standing outside his cell. “Why what?” Kleitus asked quietly.
“Why .. . murder me?” Haplo gasped. He gagged, wretched, doubled over, clutching his stomach. Sweat rolled down his face, he suppressed an agonized cry.
“Ah, you understand what is happening to you. Painful, is it? For that, we are sorry. But we needed a poison that was slow to do its work and we didn’t have much time to devote to study. What we devised is crude, albeit efficient. Is it killing you?”
The dynast might have been a professor, inquiring of a student if his experiment in alchemy was proceeding satisfactorily.
“Yes, damn it! It’s killing me!” Haplo snarled.
Anger filled him. Not anger at dying. He’d been near death before, the time the chaodyns attacked him, but then he’d been content to die. He’d fought well, defeated his enemies. He’d been victorious. Now he was dying ignominiously, dying at the hands of another, dying shamefully, without being able to defend himself.