"Spent, my lord."

"Spent? Spent?! Why just last week I received that king's ransom. King Fliffull's!"

"Flitphor's, my lord, and his kingdom paid half of it in trade. Surely you've noticed the increase of chicken in recent meals." There was the faint suggestion of a sigh, and the rustle of robes as the speaker shifted position.

"Spent!" Glossy black boots squealed in protest at a sudden turn, as he rounded on the man. "Am I to take your word for it, Cael?" he demanded. Dark eyes narrowed in suspicion as he raked an accusing glare over his advisor.

Cael stood just inside the doorway, with head bowed and hands tucked into the sleeves of his voluminous robes. His fingers absently plucked at the silver embroidered arcane ruins that served as trim, the incessant movement the only sign that he was not completely composed. A staff, topped with a large, creamy crystal leaned against the wall behind him. The crystal glowed softly, the low light serving to amplify the shadows rather than provide illumination. "Lord Drelnor-"

Drelnor stalked over, wobbling slightly from the high heels of his boots, to stand directly before his advisor and appear sinister. The effect was slightly spoiled by the differences in height and the cowl blocking direct eye-contact. "I don't believe you," Drelnor growled, leaning forward to invade Cael's personal space.

Cael drew out a scroll from some hidden inner pocket, long fingers caressing the parchment. "I anticipated your concern, my lord, and had an inventory done by a complement of your guards. Surely you trust your guards? Otherwise allowing them to stand near your body with weapons while you sleep would be most foolhardy."

Drelnor snatched the scroll out of Cael's hand violently, crumpling it under the pressure of his grip. "I just don't want anyone sneaking into my bedchambers and slitting my throat," he said, somewhat defensively. "That's how that bandit chieftain got it, and he lived up an unscalable mountain." Turning his attention to the scroll, he unwound it in jerky movements. His brow furrowed as he looked at the writing, lips moving silently.

"Apparently it wasn't that unscalable after all," Cael remarked dryly. "Although I heard the assassin made a slight miscalculation on how the weight of the gold bullion would affect his balance on the way down." The robe rustled again as he tucked his hands into the sleeves, tugging to smooth the velvet.

"None of these numbers are the same," Drelnor complained.

"Your guards had a few problems when counting sums larger than ten, but as all of their results fall significantly short of your required amount, I did not think repeated recounts would improve the matter."

"This one is completely off." His finger, swollen like a sausage from the too-tight gem encrusted ring adorning it, stabbed at the scroll, nearly puncturing the parchment.

The councilor leaned over and looked at where he was pointing. "Ah. That would be Itzel the Half-hand's estimate."

"But where did it all go?" Drelnor wailed, the scroll tumbling from his hands to hit the floor.

"A large portion of it was used up hauling stones to our new location and reconstructing your tower." Cael kept his tone bland, but a guilty look flashed across Drelnor's face.

"You must admit an obsidian tower is impressive. Much more so than that underground cavern Zornak had." Drelnor shook his head, remembering his rival's lair. "And I did interrogate the locals. They all said the volcano hadn't erupted in over a hundred years."

"Perhaps further inquiry might have revealed that the volcano had a cycle of erupting every 150 years." This time Cael couldn't prevent a slight tinge of exasperation from showing. Feeling Drelnor glaring at him, Cael quickly moved on. "Your wardrobe was also quite expensive."

"I know black is traditional, but it just made me blend into the walls. I need to stand out, or I'll never be noticed. There's dozens of people trying to set themselves up as evil dictators. I need to be special, unique. Black is common, I need to be infamous!" His hand movements became more and more expansive as he talked and his voice more animated until he was almost spitting at the end. A forceful gesture and sharp turn caused heavy brocade to flap, colliding with a porcelain vase and sending it tumbling to the ground. Layers of silk carpets muffled the fall.

Cael patiently waited for the echoes reverberating around the room to fade. "Yes, my lord, but peacocks are expensive, and you don't get a good feathers-per-bird ratio with them. Not to mention the cost of importing enough water into this desert."

"My wardrobe and relocation could not have used up all my money," protested Drelnor, giving the vase a slight kick to roll it out of his way.

"No, my lord, but they were the largest single item expenses. There was also the amount owed to your executioner-"

"I fired him weeks ago!"

"He left, my lord, when you refused to recompense him for the price of a new axe, which he felt was justified in that the old one had become blunt in the course of work. He walked into your treasure room and helped himself to that amount along with a substantial amount of back-pay nearly a month ago. I left you a note detailing the matter on your desk." The councilor's tone hinted at reproach.

Drelnor glanced guiltily at a pile of paper wedged under one leg of his gold (gilded) throne that stopped it from wobbling. "Ah, well, you see…"

"Your idea to replace him with a brace of archers was brilliant - as are all your ideas, my lord - and calling it a firing squad was very clever. However, assigning all new archers to it and combining it with target practice has prompted a few additional expenses. Namely, the cost of replacing the several warhorses and soldiers injured by stray arrows."

"Soldiers. They're always getting injured or dying and having to be replaced. That's why I want to purchase these new troops. You don't have to worry about zombies complaining about fighting with an arrow in them."

"Of course not, my lord. But zombies, especially in as good a condition as you require, are not cheap." Cael paused for a second, and then continued with a more polite, deferential tone. "If I may inquire, my lord?"

"Yes?"

"You are a necromancer. Why do you not simply raise your own army of the undead?"

Drelnor slumped into his throne, hooking a leg over one side, and stared intently at his knee. "I'm not actually," he muttered.

Cael's composure slipped for a second. "But… but I saw your diploma from the Mordaunt School for the Dark Arts. It's not a forgery. I had an enchanter check it."

Drelnor sat up sharply. "What! You doubted me?"

Cael shot him a glare, dropping all pretense of deference.

"It's real. I'm not." Drelnor slowly subsided back into his throne.

"Explain," Cael demanded.

Drelnor shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet Cael's gaze. "Well, it's like this," he said, letting his breath out in a rush. "The diploma comes from a true practitioner of the necromantic arts. Apparently he caught a chill staying out in the cold and damp night after night. Being a young man, he paid no attention to it, and one day collapsed in the street. He was nursed back to health by the innkeeper's young daughter, and, well, you don't have to be an evil genius to figure out what happened. His father-in-law insisted he get rid of the diploma, it was scaring off customers. I was in the inn, eating a lovely dish of pork dumplings, and overheard him delivering the ultimatum. I thought it would be useful in gathering followers to me. You must admit it worked well."

Cael's glare intensified.

Drelnor studied his boots, polishing the tips against the carpet.

Outside, someone gave the order for archers to fire.

Muffled shouts of pain drifted through the window, and the sergeant's voice saying, "Alright, you've survived five volleys, consider yerself pardoned. Next!"

Drelnor turned his attention to his fingernails, kept perfectly manicured by his body-slave. A thought hit him, and he turned to examine Cael. "Cael?"

"What?"

"Why did you take my diploma to another enchanter? It's a simple spell, surely within your own capabilities."

Cael straightened, his pale blue eyes darkened with anger. "You doubt my abilities, you fraud?"

Drelnor steepled his fingers over his stomach and met Cael's gaze head on. "You have been glaring at me for some time, and yet nothing has burst into flames. I feel quite healthy and unhexed. So… yes. I do have doubts."

Cael's hand plucked at a loose thread on his robe and his posture slumped a bit. "Perhaps I've over-exaggerated slightly."

"Just what are your abilities?"

The sergeant's voice intruded from outside. "Good execution, boys. I'm sure he was guilty of somethin'."

"Cael?"

"I can conjure up balls of light to juggle." At Drelnor's incredulous look, he shrugged. "I used to travel with a band of players. But I couldn't compete with some of the tricks other jugglers used - mechanical trickery and fake magic."

"Now retrieve yer arrows," shouted the sergeant, "get yer bowls and line up for yer helpin' of chicken soup."

"But what about your staff?"

Cael shrugged and picked it up. Turning it over in his hands, he tilted it so that the crystal caught the sunlight. "The stone simply reflects light. If there's none around, I conjure up a small ball under it. There's a gap between the wood and crystal piece, see?" He offered the staff to Drelnor, who examined it briefly before handing it back. "Nothing enchanted about it."

They both stared at the glowing stone.

"So what happens now?" Drelnor asked finally.

Cael hesitated a moment, then drew his cowl back up and adjusted his sleeves. "Will my lord be wanting his lunch in the dining hall or private chamber?"

"Private chamber, I think," Drelnor announced happily, springing off his throne. "And see if you can convince Cook to send up an extra biscuit with it." He paused in the doorway. "Cael?"

"Yes?"

"Skeletons?"

"No, my lord."

"A horde of possessed vermin and/or locusts?"

"No."

Drelnor sighed, visibly deflating. "Oh well. Maybe next time. In the meantime have someone slip some poison into a well again and send the standard ultimatum to the local Baron."

"I can certainly manage that," Cael said, fingering something within his robe. He watched Drelnor sweep out of the room, then turned to close the window casements.

In the courtyard below, several archers still struggled to remove arrows from a palm tree. One archer had his foot firmly braced against the trunk and was clearly throwing his entire body into the pull.

Cael, his hand on the shutter, watched impassively as the palm tree toppled over, knocking over several archers. The blacksmith, already unhappy at having to work with tin, would no doubt complain at having to rework the dented helms. Cael squinted at the roiling group below and tsked. Perhaps he should authorize that copper reinforcement, several of the nose pieces seemed to have snapped off entirely.

A soldier had begun organizing a group to chop the palm tree into easily moved bits in order to free a trapped archer. Cael noted him for possible future advancement. One soldier seemed to enjoy the challenge, swinging enthusiastically at the fallen tree. Or perhaps, Cael thought, wincing at a shriek as he missed the tree, it was simply enjoyment at being able to hit the archers for once. The next swing hit the tree with a solid crack, and there were more screams as sword fragments flew in every direction.

"Those were made of iron," Cael exclaimed sharply. His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps a new blacksmith would do better. I seem to remember my cousin used to date a tinkerer." He nodded once, and strode off to the aerie to send a bird.

The aerie was located at the top of the tower, up a narrow winding staircase, and Cael, walking from the ground floor throne room, arrived out of breath and annoyed. He was greeted by a liveried servant, a rack of mostly empty large cages, and a dilemma. "What do you mean we haven't any ravens?"

The servant cowered at his tone. "There's a vulture available, magister. She's a good bird; I caught her myself at the Captain's execution. That was a lovely execution, by the way, sir, I thought it was very dramatic. Especially the bit where the glowy balls of light circled the stake while you chanted, and then Renalf threw the torch at him and missed the kindling wood. But the stands burned very nicely.

"I-"

"And you could tell it was special magical fire, because it even burned your's and m'lord's chairs which were gold. Burned them right up so that nothing was left, not even a melted puddle."

"Yes, but-"

"I know about that because I stayed around after. That's when you get the best vultures, the ones who aren't too scared or cowardly, but come right up and flap their wings at you." He turned to coo at the nearest bird. "You do, don't you? Yes, you do." It flapped it's wings, revealing lighter feathers coating it's belly, then folded them and cocked it's head to stare at Cael. The vulture's dark brown eyes and hungry stare was reminiscent of Drelnor's, even to the head bobbing. The sharp, hooked beak opened, and the bird let out a cry that sounded like a mangling of Cael's name.

Cael fled, retreating back down the stairs, and grabbed a scullery maid attempting to string cobwebs onto the obsidian stairs. "I want that door blockaded shut. Get a hammer, some bronze nails; tear off strips from that palm tree outside, and bar that door. Do you understand?"

She broke into tears.

"What's the matter with you, girl?" demanded Cael, crossly. Unlike him, what reasons could she possibly have to be upset?

In between sobs, she gasped out, "It's the last tree we have left, sir. I could sit under it - in between executions - and rest in the shade and wait for my fiancée to come by."

"There will be other trees and other fiancées, girl," Cael told her irritably. "Is that all?"

"No," she sniffled. "M'lord ordered me to place cobwebs on all the stairs, but I can't get them to stay. I've even tried using Cook's pudding mix."

"What was wrong with the skulls? Never you mind, just barricade that door. I'll deal with," his lips twisted, "our lord."

Cael strode off towards the kitchens with a new plan evolving in his mind. True, he had experienced several setbacks to their plans of domination, but he was still the power behind Drelnor's throne. And with a bit of chicken soup and the vial of that translucent green liquid he had stashed in his robe's lining, he would no longer have to worry about Drelnor's mismanagement further ruining their chances.

He was whistling as he approached Drelnor's personal chambers and allowed the guards to inspect the food. None of them showed any interest in tasting the food; they were all sick of chicken dishes after this last week. At their nod, he entered the room and handed over the platter with a slight bow. "Your meal, my lord." He stepped back, tilting his head so that the hood concealed how his lips twitched up at the corners.

Drelnor languidly waved him away. Leaning forward, he inhaled the aroma wafting from the bowl. "Perfect," he murmured and turned his attention to the small plate next to it. Lifting up the napkin revealed several biscuits. "Oh, good, you remembered to get an extra one." Cracking a biscuit in half, Drelnor dunked it into soup for a few seconds. "You can leave now," he muttered.

"My lord," Cael said, offering another slight bow before leaving, closing the door firmly shut behind him. For a few moments he stood there, leaning against the stone door, practicing a breathing exercise, and considering how he should handle the discovery. Shock? Surprise? Satisfaction? The guards would never dare accuse him. To do so would mean their admittance of dereliction of duty, allowing food through that had not been properly inspected. And there were always stray arrows in battle. "That should be enough time." Taking a deep breath, he turned and flung the door open, striding into the room.

"My lord! You're alive!"

Drelnor stared at him curiously for a moment. "Yes? Why wouldn't I be?"

"I meant…" He swallowed and composed himself. "There have been signs foretelling a great catastrophe, my lord, and since I could think of no greater catastrophe than your death, I assumed…" Cael let the sentence trail off.

Drelnor sighed. "You haven't been buying your poisons off of that old woman again, have you? This is the fourth one she's sold you that doesn't work. At least this time we've found out before sending out the nasty letter." He wiped his hands with the napkin, which had been tucked neatly under his chin.

Cael was suddenly reminded of his motivations for the attempted murder. "Why don't we have any ravens?" he demanded.

"Ravens?" echoed Drelnor. "Ravens are out-dated. Anyone can have a raven."

"How am I supposed to be an evil sorcerer without a raven! I don't see why you get to have anything you want and I can't have one raven for myself." Suddenly aware that he was shouting, Cael took a deep cleansing breath before continuing his tirade at a more civilized decibel level. "And what about the skulls? I thought they added a bit of class to the place. Servants had to spend days polishing them so they'd be a pristine white."

"They kept staring at me."

"Well, you can't have cobwebs," Cael retorted, "not with an obsidian tower. They won't stick to the walls."

"Have you tried using Cook's pudding? You know, the one with-"

"Yes, yes, yes. Everything was tried, including Cook's pudding. The poor girl you assigned was in tears over it."

"Oh." Drelnor stared dejectedly at the floor.

"Yes."

"I suppose you can have a raven," Drelnor said grudgingly. "One."

The concession didn't appease Cael. "And just where am I supposed to find one around here? We're in a desert. There is no water, no trees - the archers got the last one today," Cael explained as Drelnor looked to object, "no spiders and no peacocks. Just vultures."

"Oh."

"Yes."

There was a knock on the door. "If it's more bad news," Drelnor whispered aside to Cael, "feel free to kill the messenger."

Cael appeared slightly mollified. "Come in," he snapped.

The current guard Captain edged into the room, a bundle of papers in his hands. He knelt immediately, right hand over his heart, and head down. "Great Lord Drelnor, mightiest of all-"

"Yes, yes," Drelnor cut him off with a wave. "Why have you disturbed my meal?"

"I have the papers, my lord. You said you wished to view them the second the scribe was done."

"Papers? Oh, them."

Cael cast a suspicious glance at Drelnor, then held out his hand to the officer. "Give them to me, Captain." The rolls of parchment were mostly blank, and his eyes flickered to Drelnor, who was attempting to look innocent and concerned only with finishing his soup, for a moment. The tops of the parchments curled up, and Cael caught sight of some text when he smoothed them down. After a moment of study, he placed them on the table. "Thank you, Captain," he said quietly. "You're dismissed."

There was a moment of silence after the Captain stood, saluted again, and walked out.

Drelnor broke first. "I thought it would be more impressive, if all my messages had my name printed onto the paper. It's less expensive than buying a decent seal and colored wax."

"I grant that, my lord. And you know I approve of ambition, but don't you think it was a bit hasty? After all, calling yourself the Lord of the Undead implies that you have an army of the undead under your control. Which you do not," added Cael sharply.

Drelnor shrugged the criticism off. "When I ordered it done, I was under the belief that I would soon be buying several regiments of undead. I don't know why you can't arrange for some to be bought."

Cael folded himself into a nearby chair. "Economics. They're expensive because bodies are harder to get around here. The desert tends to swallow them up, burying them under heaps of sand. Now, if we were back in a decent land…" He sighed.

"Oh?" Drelnor transferred his attention more firmly to his advisor. "So if I were to move - say somewhere near a battlefield - you could get me some undead soldiers?"

"Why?" Cael asked, suspicious as ever of anything his lord took an interest in.

"I know this castle. Gothic, battlements, arrow slits, and everything. It's even near a forest."

Cael sighed. "You do remember this morning's discussion about the state of your finances?"

"We can get it cheap," Drelnor insisted. "It's just come through a siege. The previous owners are dead, and if we move quickly we can get settled in before the new owners show up."

"The walls will need repairing if we're to hold it," Cael objected, but weakly. Battlefields were to ravens what executions were to vultures.

"So we set the men to stacking rocks. They've even had some practice with it already. We can save time by not mortaring between the rocks."

"True."

Their eyes met. Cael nodded. Drelnor smiled.

Cael stood. "I'll go arrange for the relocation, my lord, while you finish your soup."

He frowned down at the bowl, and trailed a spoon through it. "It's cold now. You can take it away." Drelnor lifted a sheet of his new paper and spread it in front of him. "I want to list the benefits and disadvantages of each type. Now let's see… There's skeletons, zombies, ghouls, wraiths…" The quill pen (peacock feather) scritched against the paper as he wrote.

After a moment, Cael picked up the tray and glided out of the room, his mind brewing plans for maintaining a castle against a hostile army, transport across the ocean, recruiting, and, more importantly, what to name his ravens.