Yin laughed, an old man’s short, soft laugh. “Welcome, Ganil. From now on, come here when you please. We’re all necromancers here, we practice the black arts. Or try to . . . Come freely, day or night. And go freely. If we’re betrayed, so be it. We must trust one another. Mystery belongs to no man; we’re not keeping a secret, but practicing an art. Does that make sense to you?”
