Alfred took a last look at the dog before he left.
“The beast is dying,” stated the earl bluntly
“Yes, I know.” Alfred stroked the soft fur, petted the heaving flanks.
“What am I supposed to do with it, then?” the old man demanded. “I can’t haul a corpse with me to the gate.”
“Just leave it,” said Alfred, rising to his feet with a sigh. “If all goes well, the dog will come to meet us. If not, it won’t matter.”
*
Despite the fact that the dynast was not appearing in public, the court was thronged with people. Alfred had thought the tunnel streets crowded and claustrophobic until he entered the castle. Most of the living inhabitants of Necropolis could be found there at night, dancing, sharing the latest gossip, playing at rune-bone, eating the dynast’s food.
Entering the crowded antechamber, doing his best not to trip over Jonathan’s heels or tread on the hem of Jera’s robe, Alfred was almost suffocated by the heat, the perfume of the rez flower, the raucous noise of laughter and music. The fragrance of the rez was delightful, sweet and spicy. But it couldn’t quite mask another odor prevalent in the ballroom, an underlying odor, pervasive, cloying, sickening in the heat—the odor of death.
The living ate and drank, joked and flirted. The dead moved among the living, waiting on them, serving them. Trailing behind the cadavers, the phantasm shadows almost disappeared in the glitter of bright lights.
Everyone they met greeted the duke and duchess with enthusiasm.
“Did you hear the news, my darlings? There’s to be a war! Isn’t it too shocking!” cried a woman in mauve robes, rolling her eyes with intense enjoyment.
Jera, Jonathan, and Tomas laughed and danced and exchanged gossip and skilfully oiled their way through the throng in the antechamber, dragging, pushing, and prodding a stumbling and distressed Alfred along with them. From the antechamber, they passed into the ballroom, which was even more crowded, if such a thing were possible.
A surge in the throng suddenly separated Alfred from his group. He took a hesitating step toward where he’d last seen Jera’s shining hair, and found himself in the midst of a crowd of young people amusing themselves by watching a corpse dance.
The cadaver was that of an older man of grave and stately mien. From the dilapidated appearance of both the cadaver and the clothing it wore, the corpse had been around a long, long time. Urged on by the giggling young people, the cadaver was performing a dance that it had probably performed in its own youth.
The young people hooted and jeered and began to dance around the corpse in mockery of the old-fashioned steps. The cadaver paid no attention to them, but continued to dance on its decaying legs, moving solemnly with a pathetic grace to the tune of music only it could hear.
“I’ve found him. Fire and ash! He’s going to faint!” gasped Tomas, grabbing hold of Alfred and propping him up as the Sartan started to keel over.
“I’ve got him,” said Jonathan, catching hold of Alfred’s limp, dangling arm.
“Whafs the matter with him?” Jera demanded. “Alfred? Are you all right?”
“The .. . heat!” Alfred panted, hoping they would mistake the tears on his face for sweat. “The noise … I’m . . . most frightfully sorry…”
“We’ve been seen around the ballroom long enough to allay suspicion. Jonathan, go find the chamberlain and ask if the Queen Mother is receiving yet.”
Jonathan wormed his way through the crowd. Tomas and Jera between them guided Alfred to a somewhat quieter corner, where they dislodged a portly and grumbling necromancer from his chair and plunked the shaken Alfred down into it. The Sartan closed his eyes and shivered and hoped he could avoid being sick.
Jonathan returned shortly with the news that the Queen Mother was receiving and that they had permission to wait on her and pay their respects.
Between the three of them, they hauled Alfred to his feet and propelled him through the throng, out of the ballroom, and into a long, empty hallway that, after the heat and noise of the ballroom, was a cool and quiet haven of rest.