Brek's rooms had been chosen first, and one quick survey of them led the captain to decide quickly that someone else had straightened up after the mercenary's disappearance. Brek had not been the most organized of fighters and certainly not one of the cleanest; there should have been food, empty bottles, and more lying about. Even the bearded warrior's pack, which he would have left in the palace during his sojourns down to the city, had vanished.
"This is most troubling," Zayl quietly remarked.
A quick hunt through the rooms of the other two brought the same unsettling results. All had been arranged as if they had never been occupied by the hardened mercenaries. Even Kentril, who kept his quarters neater than most of his kind, could not match the cleanliness.
He sought out Gorst, whom he found playing cards with Albord and two other men. The fighters rose as he entered the giant's quarters, but Kentril quickly ordered them at ease.
"Who's been in Brek's rooms? Anyone?" When all four shook their heads, he focused on Albord, whose own quarters sat next to those of the missing man. "You've heard nothing through the wall?"
"Not since the last time Brek himself was in there…"
Letting them return to their game, Captain Dumon rejoined the necromancer. It did not please Kentril to see that the generally calm Zayl looked quite irked by what they had discovered.
"The palace has many servants," the latter solemnly proposed. "They move with a silence and swiftness worthy of my brethren, but it is very possible that they removed the belongings for some custodial reason."
"Or they didn't expect the boys to return," countered Humbart from the pouch.
Kentril felt defeated… and even more anxious than ever. "Is there nothing you can do, then?"
Holding up the dagger, Zayl muttered under his breath. The enchanted blade flared bright. The necromancer held the dagger before him, letting it sweep across the room.
"What're you up to?"
"I am trying to see if any useful trace at all was left behind. A single hair hidden under a chair, a scrap of cloth accidentally covered by a blanket…" No sooner had he explained, however, then the necromancer lowered the blade in mild disgust. "None of which I can find in this particular place. I am sorry, captain."
"Maybe we can—"
Before Kentril could finish, the door swung open, and Atanna appeared. "Why, here you are!"
She swept toward the fighter, Zayl seemingly nonexistent. Kentril accepted a swift kiss from her, then discovered himself being conducted out of the room.
"And you've changed back into that horrid, old outfit!" She tsk ed at him, sounding more like a mother hen than the desirable enchantress at which he stared. "You must dress before it's too late! Father already expects us there!"
"Where?" Kentril could recall no urgent matter.
"Why, for a formal introduction to the court, of course. You must be known to everyone before you officially take up the roles Father's promised you. It would be bad form otherwise."
"But—" Despite his uncertainties, despite the surmounting questions concerning Lord Khan, Captain Dumon found himself once again defenseless against the charms of the crimson—tressed princess. Atanna had come to him clad in a white—and—green gown fit perfectly to her well—curved form and designed, as it seemed with everything she wore, to utterly bewitch him.
"Now, you mustn't argue," she returned, guiding him to his own rooms. "I'll wait for you, but you must hurry! This is very important for your future here, Kentril" — her eyes seemed to shine like jewels—"and for ours as well."
And against that last point, his final defenses fell. Awaywent any concerns about the secrets of Gregus Mazi, about any subterfuge by Juris Khan… and any doubt that he would be Atanna's slave forever.
Despite some faint amusement concerning how completely overwhelmed the good captain had proven to be in the presence of Juris Khan's glorious daughter, Zayl otherwise worried about the man. Kentril Dumon surely had to feel caught between trust and betrayal, love and lies. Not trained as followers of Rathma were in the cultivation and control of emotions, the mercenary risked making a fatal misstep. Zayl hoped that would not be the case, for he knew that the captain remained his best ally. The giant Gorst could be trusted, yes, but lacked some of Kentril Dumon's battle—honed wits. As for Quov Tsin, if the Vizjerei ever proved Zayl's only hope, then surely they were all very much doomed.
But doomed to what? The key, he suspected, had something to do with the three missing men. More and more, the necromancer distrusted the notion that they had simply perished at the hands of common street thugs. No, he felt that there had to be something darker, something more ominous going on.
A check of the rooms inhabited by the other two missing mercenaries revealed the same lack of clues. Zayl considered mesmerizing one of the servants into revealing what had happened to the men's effects, but not only did that seem likely to earn him the watchful eye of their host, he could also not find any of the attendants. As the necromancer had remarked to Captain Dumon, they indeed moved as if trained by Zayl's own people, a curious thing to think about liveried servants. Yet another confounding piece of a puzzle whose image he had yet to divine.
"One hair, one piece of nail," he murmured as he finished his second search of the last set of rooms. "Not so much to ask, but apparently too much to hope for."
One single strand, one follicle, and he could have doneas he had in the sanctum of Gregus Mazi. Zayl did not like being thwarted by such minuscule things; surely the forces that sought to keep the mortal world in balance did not intend such frustration. Zayl only wished that he could have—
The necromancer froze in the act of putting away the dagger, his mind suddenly aflame with a realization that he had been ignoring an entire path open to him all this time. Captain Dumon had actually brought it up, but, focused on the mercenary officer's actual reason for coming to him, Zayl had lost sight of it. The possible answer to all their questions shouted to be heard, and the spellcaster had been blithely deaf to it.
When first Zayl had sought the shade of Gregus Mazi, the latter had not been dead.
But now the sorcerer was… put down mercifully by the necromancer's party after discovering his horrific plight.
"I am a fool!" he uttered.
"Are you looking for argument?" came Humbart's voice.
He looked down at the pouch. "Gregus Mazi is dead!"
"Aye, and it's nothing to cheer, you hear me, lad?"
But Zayl did not answer him, already departing the emptied chamber for his own. He would set up the patterns, arrange the spell—
No! His room would never do. During the course of their search, the captain had told Zayl of Juris Khan's disturbing reaction during Tsin's spellwork. The necromancer suddenly wondered if seeking the ghost of the sorcerer would be a wise thing to do in the very sanctum of the one who had claimed, either erroneously or falsely, to have slain him.
At the very least, it would pay to perform the spell elsewhere, and Zayl could think of no better location than the mouth of the cave leading to where they had found what had remained of the unfortunate mage.
It took the necromancer little time to retrieve what heneeded from his quarters and even less time to exit the palace by secret means. Zayl had memorized the layout to the edifice well, suspicious, somehow, that it would prove opportune later. Part of a calling held in mistrust and apprehension among most folk, he had done so out of habit. One never knew when an overzealous official might decide to make his mark by capturing and disposing of the «evil" summoner of the dead.