“Sergeant,” said the necromancer, turning to the cadaver in the lead of the small troop, “what is your assigned duty?”
“Guard prisoners. Take them to the palace,” answered the cadaver, its hollow voice mingling with the other hollow voices of the dead milling about in the tunnel.
“What prisoners?” the monitor asked.
The cadaver paused, searching its past, latched on to a memory. “Prisoners of war, sir.”
“What battle?” asked the monitor, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
“Battle.” A trace of a smile seemed to touch the cadaver’s blue lips. “Battle of the Fallen Colossus, sir.”
“Ah,” said Jera, bitingly.
The necromancer heaved a sigh. “I am extremely sorry, Your Graces. Would you like me to deal with this?”
“If you please. I could have done it myself, but there’s so much less bother involved if you take care of the matter, you being a government official. You’ll know how to submit the proper reports.”
‘And we didn’t want to cause a scene,” added Jonathan. “The dead can be so stubborn sometimes. Once they got it into their heads that we were their prisoners .. .” He shrugged. “Well, they might have proved difficult. Think of the scandal if Her Grace and I were seen arguing with cadavers!”
The monitor evidently thought of it, for he bowed, then began to wave his hands in the air, tracing the runes, and chanting. The cadavers’ expressions wavered, became slightly confused, lost, helpless.
“Return to the palace,” stated the monitor crisply. “Report to your superior that you lost your prisoner. I’ll send someone with them, make certain that they don’t annoy anyone else along the way. And now, Your Graces,” said the monitor, touching his hand to the cowl of his robe, “if you will excuse me—”
“Certainly. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.” Jera raised her hand, traced a sigil of polite blessing.
The monitor returned it, hurriedly, then hastened off to deal with the traffic tie-up clogging the tunnel. Jera linked her arm into her husband’s, who took hold of Alfred’s elbow. They steered the Sartan down a tunnel heading in a direction at right angles to the one they’d been traveling.
Dazed by the noise, the crowd, the claustrophobic atmosphere of the tunnels, it took Alfred a moment to realize that he and his companions were free.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing behind, missing his footing, and stumbling over himself.
Jonathan balanced him. “A matter of timing, actually. Do you think you might speed up your pace a bit and keep an eye on where you’re walking? We’re not out of this yet and the sooner we reach the Rift Gate, the better.”
“I’m sorry.” Alfred felt his face burn. He paid close attention to where he was putting his feet and watched them travel in the most extraordinary places—down holes, onto other people’s feet, turning corners never intended to be turned.
“Pons was in such haste to get you back to the dynast—here, allow me to help you up—he neglected to renew the dead’s instructions. You have to do that periodically or they do what this lot did. They revert back to acting from memory, their own memories.”
“But they were taking us to the palace—”
“Yes. They would have managed that task quite adequately. Clung to it tenaciously, in fact. One reason we didn’t dare try to get rid of them ourselves. As it was, that other necromancer confused them enough to break the thin thread still attaching them to their orders. The smallest distraction can send them back to bygone days. That’s one reason the monitors are posted around town. They take charge of any dead who’re wandering about aimlessly. Look out for that cart! Are you all right? Just a bit farther, then we should be through the worst of the traffic.”
Jera and Jonathan hustled Alfred along at a rapid rate, each glancing nervously about as they did so. They kept to the shadows when possible, avoiding the pools of light cast by the gas lamps.
“Will they come after us?”
“You may be sure of that!” the duke said emphatically. “Once the guards return to the palace, Pons will have fresh guards sent out with our descriptions. We must reach the gate before they do.”