"Zayl, boy! I must speak!"
He planted a hand over the bulky pouch at his side, trying to smother the voice that could not be smothered. Even though it had hardly spoken above a whisper, to the necromancer it had resounded like thunder in the empty hall.
"Zayl—"
"Quiet, Humbart!" he whispered. Quickly surveying the area, Zayl noticed the entrance to a balcony. With smooth, silent movements, the slim, pale man darted outside.
Below, the sounds of merriment continued. Zayl exhaled; out here, no one would hear him speaking with the skull.
He pulled what remained of Humbart Wessel out of the pouch, glaring into the empty eye sockets. "More than once you have nearly given away yourself, Humbart, and thereby put me in straits! Trust is not always an easy thing for one of my kind to attain, but it is a fairly easy thing for us to lose. Those who do not understand the truth of Rathma prefer to believe the lies."
"You mean, like raising the dead?"
"What is it you want, Humbart?"
"Gregus Mazi," answered the skull, the eye sockets almost seeming to narrow.
He had captured Zayl's attention. "What about him?"
"You didn't believe that hogwash about old Gregus, did you?" mocked Humbart. "Gregus, who wanted so badly to join his friends in Heaven that he prayed each morning and eve and cried most of the day through?"
Looking down at the torchlit city, the necromancer thought over everything that had been said about the sorcerer. During Juris Khan's revelations, Zayl had morethan once pondered inconsistencies with what Humbart Wessel had told him but had also assumed that the lord of Ureh would certainly know Mazi better. "Sorcerers, especially those like the Vizjerei, can be a treacherous, lying bunch. Mazi simply fooled you, Humbart."
"If he fooled me, lad, then I've got two legs, a pair of arms, and all the bones in between still—and covered in a good wrapping of flesh to boot! Old Gregus, he was a torn man, blaming himself for not being good enough and praying for redemption from day one. He was no monster, no corrupted wizard, mark me!"
"But Juris Khan—"
"Either was fooled or lies through his teeth. I'd swear on my grave, and you know that's one oath I'll hold true to."
Now Zayl truly understood his own earlier anxieties. In the past, he had heard from the skull bits and pieces of the events that had taken place outside the shadowed kingdom, when Humbart Wessel and his men had watched Gregus Mazi rush to the ghostly city, arms raised in praise to Heaven and voice calling out thanks for this second opportunity. Every time Humbart had mentioned the spellcaster, it had always been as a man driven to redeem himself, to prove himself worthy.
Not at all the beast that Khan and his daughter had described.
"And what would you suggest?" the necromancer muttered.
"Find out the truth from the source, of course!"
Zayl gaped. "Gregus Mazi?"
It had never occurred to him to try to raise the specter of the dead mage. In the past, it had seemed impossible, for all trace of the man had been thought to have vanished along with the legendary kingdom, but now Zayl stood within that realm himself.
One problem remained, though. According to Juris Khan, Mazi had been utterly destroyed, his corporeal form incinerated. Without skin, hair, blood, or a sample of well—wornclothes, even a skilled necromancer such as Zayl could hope to accomplish little.
He said as much to the skull, which brought back a harsh and sarcastic response from Humbart. "Am I the only one of us who still has a brain in his head? Think, lad! Gregus was born and raised in Ureh. He lived here all his life until the spell that cast the soul of the city and its people into oblivion, and then he still came back again. More to the point, Zayl, Ureh's been frozen in time, almost unchanging. If old Gregus had a place to call his own here, the betting's good that it still stands."
What Humbart said made such sense that Zayl could not believe that he had not thought it. If a piece of clothing or an item often used could be found among the dead mage's belongings, it might prove enough to summon the shade of the man. Then from Gregus Mazi himself the necromancer could learn the truth—and possibly even the key to Ureh's salvation. If Mazi proved to be the evil that Juris Khan claimed him to be, Zayl could wring the secret of his spellwork from him far faster than Tsin could ever hope to do by thumbing through volume after volume of dusty tomes.
"We must find his home."
"Can't likely just ask, though, can we?"
Eyeing again the city below, where the celebrations continued unabated, Zayl allowed himself the slightest of smiles. "Perhaps we can, Humbart… perhaps we can."
A few minutes later, the cloaked spellcaster walked among the citizens of Ureh, a tower of black among the colorful locals dancing, cheering, and singing under the light of torches and oil lamps. It seemed odd to need torches and lamps at what should have been the brightest part of the day, but with the deep shadow of Nymyr also their protection from both exile and horrific death, the inhabitants of Ureh certainly seemed unwilling to complain.
Several men insisted on shaking his hand or slapping his back, while more than one enticing female sought to thank him even more personally. Zayl suffered the slaps and accepted politely the kisses on his cheek, but although he could not help being slightly caught up by the mood around him, the necromancer kept his mind on the task ahead.
"Damn, but I wish I had a body to go with this cracked old skull," came Humbart's voice from the pouch. "Ah, to drink some good ale, to find some bad women—"
"Quiet!" While it seemed unlikely that anyone would hear the skull in the midst of all this festivity, Zayl wanted to take no chances.
One of Kentril Dumon's men came swaggering down the street, a young woman on each arm. The bearded mercenary kissed the one clad in a golden outfit more appropriate for a harem, then noticed the necromancer watching him.
"Enjoyin' yourself, spellcaster?" He grinned and, momentarily releasing his companions, extended his arms to include all of Ureh. "The whole blasted kingdom wants ta celebrate us heroes!"
Zayl recalled the dark—haired fighter's name. Putting a slight smile on his own face, he commented, "A change from the usual mercenary's reward, yes, Brek?"
"You can say that!" Brek placed his arm around the second young woman, a sultry beauty with ample curves whose gossamer dress hid little. The fighter let his fingers dangle a scant inch or two over the uppermost of those curved areas as he paused to kiss her on the throat.
The one in gold began giving Zayl admiring glances. Under shaded eyes, she said, "Are you one of the heroes, too?"
"Careful there!" the mercenary jested. "He's a necromancer, ladies! You know, raise the dead and commune with spirits!"
If Brek thought that this would scare the two, he wassorely mistaken. In fact, both eyed Zayl with much more interest, so much, in fact, that he felt like a bound mouse set before two hungry cats.
"You raise the dead?" the first breathed. "And spirits, too?"
"Can you show us?" asked the second.
"Here now, ladies! Don't go givin' him any notions about that!"
Zayl shook his head. "It is not something lightly done, anyway, my ladies. Besides, I would not wish to dampen these festivities. After all, the curse of Gregus Mazi has finally been countered."
The one in gold lost all trace of humor. "A terrible, terrible man!"
"Yes, a traitorous person. Ureh would be well rid of all memory of him. Any images, any writings, they should all be destroyed. Even his sanctum should be razed to the ground, the better to forget his evil… that is, unless to do so would endanger the homes of others."