Chapter 1: In which death awaits and a plot is hatched     

   The condemned cell stank of cats.   
   There were no rats and no cockroaches, for which Johannes Cabal--a necromancer of some little infamy--was grateful. But the cost of vermin control was an army of cats who crept in and out of his cell and wandered throughout the dungeons of the HarslausCastle with complete impunity. Even the cell doors had cat flaps cut into them. It was no secret that the warders had a much higher opinion of the animals than they did of the inmates. When Cabal was given his introductory tour--which took the form of beingthrown down the stairs and shouted at--he had been left in no doubt that any harm that he might cause the cats would be returned to him, plus interest.   
   So now he sat and waited for the authorities to find a window in their very busy schedules to execute him, and he did so covered in cat hair in a cell that countless generations of toms had proudly and extravagantly claimed as their own. Things could probablybe worse but, despite some careful thought, Cabal couldn't put his finger on how. So, instead, he considered how he had come to be in such a circumstance. Strictly, necromancy was the telling of the future by summoning up the spirits of the dead and askingthem searching questions. This, Cabal believed, was a singularly poor way of finding out anything. The dead were moderately strong on history, weak on current events, and entirely useless for discerning what was to come. They were, after all, dead. Still, thatwas the dictionary definition of necromancy.   
   O...