Haplo felt the revulsion rise in him again. He’d seen sights in the Labyrinth that would have driven most men insane, yet he was forced to harden what he had considered a will of iron in order to keep following along behind the gruesome army.
Edmund shot him a glance, as if the prince would like very much to tell this interloper to go away. Haplo kept his expression purposefully friendly, concerned.
“What did you say was going on?”
‘An army from Necropolis has landed on the shores of the town,” Edmund answered shortly. Something seemed to occur to him, for he continued, in a more conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry. You have a ship docked there, I believe you said.”
Haplo started to reply that the runes on his ship would protect it, thought better of it. “Yeah, I’m worried about it. I’d like to see for myself.”
“I’d ask the dead to check it for you, but they’re unreliable in their reports. For all I know, they could be describing an enemy they fought ten years ago.”
“Why do you use them as scouts, then?”
“Because we cannot spare the living.”
So, what Alfred told me was true, Haplo thought. At least that much. And that brought another problem to mind. The Sartan … by himself.. ..
“Go back,” Haplo ordered the dog. “Stay with Alfred.”
The animal obediently did as it was told.
*
Alfred was exceedingly miserable and almost welcomed the animal’s return, although he knew very well it had been sent back by Haplo to spy on him. The dog flopped down beside him, gave the man’s hand a swift lick with its tongue and nudged its head beneath his palm to encourage Alfred to scratch behind its ears.
The return of the necromancer was far less welcome. Baltazar was a hale and hearty man. His straight stance, commanding air, long black flowing robes emphasized his height, making him appear taller than he was. He had the ivory-hued skin of these people who had never known sunshine. His hair, unlike that of most Sartan, was so black as to be almost blue. His beard, squared-off about three inches beneath his jaw, glistened like the obsidian rock of his homeland. The black eyes were exceedingly intelligent, shrewd, and intent, stabbing whatever it was they looked at and holding it up to the light for further examination.
Baltazar turned those relentless eyes on Alfred, who felt their sharp blade enter and drain him dry.
“I am glad for this opportunity to talk with you alone,” said Baltazar.
Alfred wasn’t, not in the least, but he had lived much of his life in court and a polite rejoinder came automatically to his lips. “Is .. . is there going to be trouble?” he added, squirming beneath the gaze of the black eyes.
The necromancer smiled and informed Alfred—politely—that, if there was trouble, it was no concern of his.
This was a point Alfred might have argued, because he was among these people, but the Sartan wasn’t very good at arguing and so he meekly kept quiet. The dog yawned and lay blinking at them sleepily.
Baltazar was silent. The living in the cave were silent, watching and waiting. The dead were silent, standing around at the back of the cavern, not waiting, because they had nothing for which to wait. They simply stood and would apparently keep standing until one of the living told them otherwise. The king’s cadaver didn’t seem to know what to do with itself. None of the living spoke .to it, and it eventually drifted forlornly to the back of the cave to join its dead subjects in doing nothing.
“You don’t approve of necromancy, do you?” Baltazar asked suddenly.
Alfred felt as if the magma flow had diverted course and gone up his legs and body directly to his face. “N—no, I don’t.”
“Then why didn’t you come back for us? Why did you leave us stranded?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” The fury in the necromancer’s voice was all the more appalling because the anger was contained, the words spoken softly, for Alfred’s ears alone.
Not quite alone. The dog was listening, too.