A pair of wizards climbed into view. They knew enough to ward themselves against the aura of malign energy emanating from Xingax's body and had surely done so, but potbellied So-Kehur with his food-spotted robe appeared queasy and ill at ease even so.
The mage's nervousness stirred Xingax's contempt. He knew what he looked like to human eyes: an oversized, freakishly deformed stillborn or aborted fetus. Pure ugliness, and never mind that, if his mother had carried him to term, he would have been a demigod, but a necromancer should be inured to phenomena that filled ordinary folk with horror.
At least Muthoth didn't show any overt signs of revulsion, which was not to suggest that he looked well. Bandages shrouded his right hand, and bloodstains dappled his robe; even dry, they had an enticing, unmistakable coppery smell. The ghoul familiar he'd worn like a mask of ink was gone.
Muthoth regarded Xingax with a blend of arrogance and wariness. The undead entity supposed it was understandable. Muthoth and So-Kehur were Red Wizards, schooled to hold themselves above everyone except their superiors in the hierarchy, yet they were also young, little more than apprentices, and Xingax manifestly occupied a position of authority in the current endeavor. Thus, they weren't sure if they needed to defer to him or could get away with ordering him around.
One day, Xingax supposed, he'd likely have to settle the question of who was subordinate to whom, but for now, he just wanted to deal with the interruption quickly and return to his computations.
"What happened to the two of you?" he asked.
"We had some trouble on the trail," Muthoth said. "A man attacked us."
Xingax cocked his head. "A man? As in, one?"
Muthoth colored. "He was a bard, with magic of his own."
"And here I thought it was an article of faith with you Red Wizards that your arts are superior to all others," Xingax drawled. "At any rate, I assume you made him pay for his audacity."
Muthoth hesitated. "No. He translated himself elsewhere."
"By Velsharoon's staff! You couriers have one simple task, to acquire and transport slaves without attracting undue attention- never mind. Just tell me exactly what happened."
Muthoth did, while So-Kehur stood and fidgeted. Impatient as Xingax was to return to his experiments, he had to admit it was a tale worth hearing if only because it seemed so peculiar. He was incapable of love in both the spiritual and anatomical senses, but in the course of dealing with beings less rational than himself, he'd acquired some abstract understanding of what those conditions entailed. Still, it was ultimately unfathomable that a man could so crave the society of one particular woman that he'd risk near-certain destruction on her behalf.
Of course, from a practical perspective, the enigmas of human psychology were beside the point, and Xingax supposed he ought to focus on what was pertinent. "You didn't tell this Bareris Anskuld you were heading into Delhumide, did you?" he asked.
"Of course not!" Muthoth snapped.
"It's conceivable," said Xingax, "that he's inferred it, but even if he has, I don't see what he can do about it. Follow? If so, our sentinels will kill him. Tell others what he's discovered? We'd prefer that he not, and we'll try to find and silence him, but really, he doesn't know enough to pose a problem. He may not dare to confide in anyone anyway. After all, the will of a Red Wizard is law, and by running afoul of the two of you, he automatically made himself a felon."
Muthoth nodded. "That's the way I see it."
"We're just sorry," said So-Kehur, "that the bard killed some of our warriors, and the orcs had to kill a few of the slaves."
Muthoth shot his partner a glare, and Xingax understood why. While telling their story, Muthoth had opted to omit that particular detail.
"Did you reanimate the dead?" Xingax asked.
"Yes," Muthoth said.
"Then I suppose that in all likelihood, it didn't do any extraordinary harm." Xingax started to turn back to his papers then realized the wizards were still regarding him expectantly. "Was there more?"
"We assumed," said Muthoth, "that you'd want to divide up the shipment, or would you rather I do it?"
Xingax screwed up his asymmetrical features, pondering. He didn't want to forsake his creative work for a mundane chore. He could feel the answer to the puzzle teasing him, promising to reveal itself if he pushed just a little longer. On the other hand, the slaves were a precious resource, one he'd occasionally come near to exhausting despite the best efforts of the couriers to keep him supplied, and he wasn't certain he could trust anyone but himself to determine how to exploit them to best effect.
"I'll do it," he sighed.
He beckoned to the giant zombie, and the creature picked him up to ride on its shoulders as if he were a toddler, and the mindless brute with its low forehead and gnarled apish arms, his father. His frayed, greasy length of umbilicus dangled over the zombie's chest.
In reality, it wasn't necessary that anyone or anything carry Xingax. If he chose, he could move about quite adequately on his own, but it suited him that folk should think him as physically helpless as his ravaged fetal form appeared. For the time being, he and his associates were all on the same side, but an existence spent primarily in the Abyss had taught him just how quickly such situations could alter, and a time might come when he'd want to give one of his compatriots a lethal surprise.
His balcony was one of a number of such vantage points overlooking the warren of catacombs below. Despite the extensive labor required, he'd ordered the construction of a system of catwalks to connect one perch to the next and only descended to mingle with his living associates when necessary. Even necromancers couldn't maintain their mystical defenses against his proximity every moment of every day, nor could they work efficiently if vomiting, suffering blinding headaches, or collapsing in convulsions.
As his undead giant lumbered along with Muthoth and So-Kehur trailing at its heels, it pleased Xingax to see the complex bustling with activity, each of his minions busy at his-or its-job. That was as it must be, if he was to make progress in his investigations and earn his ultimate reward.
One of the Red Wizards had conjured a perpetual gloom to shroud the platform overlooking the enormous vault where the couriers caged newly arrived slaves. The prisoners' eyes couldn't penetrate the shadows, but an observer experienced no difficulty looking out of them. Thus, Xingax could study the thralls without agitating them.
He didn't scrutinize any one individual for long. He trusted his first impressions, his myopia notwithstanding. "Food," he said, pointing. "Basic. Basic. Advanced. Food. Basic." Then he noticed the wizards simply standing and listening. "Why aren't you writing this down?"
"No need," said Muthoth. "So-Kehur will remember."
"He'd better," Xingax said. He continued assigning the slaves to their respective categories until only two remained.
They were young women who'd found a corner in which to settle. Likely aghast at what she'd glimpsed on the walk to her current place of confinement, the one with long hair appeared to have withdrawn deep inside herself. Her companion was coaxing her to sample the porridge their captors had provided.
"Food and food," Xingax concluded, feeling a renewed eagerness to return to the problem of the defective ritual. "Is there anything else?"
Maddeningly, it appeared there was. "My hand," said Muthoth, lifting the bandaged one. "I've heard about your skill with grafts, and I was hoping you could do something to repair it."
"Why, of course," Xingax said. "I have a thousand vital tasks to occupy me, but I'll gladly defer them to help a mage so incompetent that he couldn't defend himself against a lone madman even with a second wizard and bodyguards to help. Because that's exactly the sort of ally I want owing me a favor."