by Mel Odom
“I’m telling you now,” Cobner said, “adding that halfer to our group would be a mistake. It would mark us to anyone. If you’re worried about him suffering, I could take him out into the woods, slit his throat, and leave him.”
“Could you do that, Cobner?” Sonne demanded. “Truly?”
“If I thought the little halfer was going to be responsible for the deaths of me or any of you,” Cobner said, “I’d slit his throat and sing ‘The Engagement of Tokner Dweet’ at the same time.”
“The Engagement of Tokner Dweet,” Wick knew, was a particularly humorous dwarven tale told in taverns when the audience was deeply into their cups. The little librarian shuddered. I will never again think of that song in the same fashion.
“Enough,” Brant said with quiet authority. “I took responsibility for the little artist the day I purchased him from Boolian Toadas. I had a feeling about those gems and the way they appeared to fit together. Look at this table, the little man has done more than any of us have been able to.”
“It’s not our way to take in strays,” Cobner growled.
“Cobner,” the master thief said pointedly, “were it not for strays, I’d have no family at all. I’ve lost one family to an axe of a headsman ordered by a tyrant who saw fit to proclaim himself king. I’ll not lose another one to dissent within our ranks.”
“And should it come time that the little halfer proves dangerous to us?” Cobner demanded.
“Then I’ll do what needs to be done,” Brant answered. “As I have ever done. But if this mosaic can lead us to other riches, need I remind you that we need it? We’ve lived well enough while we’ve plied our trade in Hanged Elf’s Point, but it takes time—and coin—to set up an operation in another village where we are not known. If the little artist can help us do that, can help me take care of this family, then I’m going to wait.”
“One more day,” Cobner said.
“One more day,” Brant said.
Tired and chilled from the talk of who was going to slit his throat should the time come, head swimming from fatigue, Wick forced himself from the couch. He stumbled into the dining room without a word, watching as the thieves slowly moved away from the table.
“Wick,” Brant said, smiling uncertainly. “I didn’t know you were awake. I hope we didn’t wake you with our banter.”
“No,” Wick lied. Momentary thoughts of trying to escape through the woods flitted through his mind. But where would he go? He didn’t know anything about the geography of the surrounding countryside, and all the dwellers in these lands seemed to be the property of one group or another.
“Good. We were just concerned about your progress. It seems you’ve done a lot with these gems, but maybe we need to face the possibility that not all of them are here.”
The little librarian faced the master thief. “I can finish the mosaic. I almost have it now.” He swept his gaze over the table where the five clumps of jewels sat in the loose debris of at least a hundred more jewels to go. “I realize my mistake now.”
“Time is against us, my little artist.”
Wick sat in the chair where he’d sat for nearly thirty hours straight before he’d passed out and evidently been carried to the couch. He reached for the piece with the amethyst skull on it, then swiftly slid an emerald into place. He’d awoke with most of the design in his head; a gift from his unresting subconscious mind. “This isn’t a Keldian mosaic master’s swan song,” the little librarian declared. His fingers started to come awake now and his eyesight sharpened. His excitement increased despite the uncertainty of his future with the thieves.
“Then what is it?” Brant asked.
“It’s a map,” Wick declared. Six more emeralds flew through his fingers, then he reached for one of the other clumps, fitting it easily now. His fingers moved more confidently, and he could feel the excitement suddenly infusing the thieves gathered around him.
“A map of what?” Brant asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Wick admitted. He put another twenty gems together, then added another piece of the mosaic. Only two of the big chunks remained, and less than fifty gems. “But it’s three-dimensional, see?” He held the three assembled pieces together in his hand and showed them.
“It’s a room,” Hamual said.
“A room with a skull in it,” Sonne added, biting her lower lip excitedly.
“You see,” Wick said, “I’d been thinking of the mosaic as two-dimensional, and I guess my preconception kept my fingers from knowing what to do. Two-dimensional means that the mosaic would only have height and width. The third dimension added is depth.” In minutes, he had the pieces all together. And in the same breath, he knew what the mosaic represented.
Brant took the mosaic from Wick and placed it in the center of the table. It glittered and sparked under the lantern light. Scarcely as large as Brant’s hand, the mosaic stood three inches deep. It gave the illusion of walls around the rectangle that resembled a bed where the skull sat.
“What is it?” Lago asked.
“It’s a crypt,” Wick answered, suddenly feeling colder.
“And what would be so special about a crypt?” Brant asked.
“This.” Wick flicked a finger against the back of the skull. Neatly attached by a clever linchpin created by two emeralds, the skull flipped forward and stayed there. Beneath the skull was one of the two black opals that had been in the bag of gems Brant had given him.
“What is it?” Cobner asked.
“A key,” Sonne answered in a hoarse whisper, her quick eyes flashing confidently.
“A key to what?” Hamual asked.
Wick moved his finger again, moving aside a clever arrangement of gems that formed what looked like a portrait on the wall behind the skull. There, made of the second chipped black opal, was the outline of a keyhole. The little librarian traced the rectangle created only in relief by the placement of the gems. “This door,” Wick said.
“What does it go to?” Brant asked.
“I don’t know,” Wick replied.
“This could be someone’s idea of a joke,” Cobner pointed out. “A fool’s errand with only death waiting at the other end.”
“But it could be treasure,” Brant said, black eyes afire. “Who would go to this kind of trouble without what lies on the other side of that door being worth a fortune?” He shook his head. “No. I’m willing to take the risk. Who’s in it with me?”
All of the other thieves agreed, with Cobner waiting till the very last.
“Good,” Brant said enthusiastically, “it’s settled.” He reached out and tousled Wick’s hair. “And you, my little artist, you have turned out to be one fine investment. Now, what can you tell me about where to find this crypt?”
Wick turned the mosaic over in his hands, revealing the small symbol made up of emeralds and rubies that had been created by joining two of the five pieces he had assembled. “Only that it will bear this-the symbol of a crowing cock.” He tapped the symbol with a finger.
A ruby comb and ruby spots on his wing topped the emerald rooster. Dark blue sapphires made up the cock’s tail feathers. The animal symbol was set inside an amethyst banner created by the joining of the pieces at the top.
“A crypt should be easy enough to find,” Brant said, “even in Hanged Elf’s Point. If we leave first thing this morning—only a few hours from now by the looks of the sky—we could make the city again a couple hours before sunset.”
Despite the fact that Hanged Elf’s Point no longer dealt with graveyards, and that the only gravediggers were slaves used to dig mass graves for arena victims in too many pieces to properly dispose of to the sharks in the harbor, there were still a number of graveyards. After they’d arrived in the city shortly before sundown, Brant had divided everyone into six two-man groups, keeping Wick with Sonne and him.
The little librarian had managed to sleep again in the saddle during the trip even though he’d been highly nervous about the trip back into the city. Tha
t ability to sleep had astounded all of the thieves, but they’d never tried to sleep in a dweller house with younger children scampering everywhere. During the trip, they’d only had one close encounter with a goblin patrol that had missed their hiding place.
Wick sat astride the horse Brant had assigned to him, the reins actually in his hands now, and stared at the wrought iron gates of Serene Haven Cemetery leaning haphazardly in their moorings. Trees and brush had overgrown the cemetery, and several of the crypts had been damaged beyond repair by the spell Lord Kharrion had used to reshape the Shattered Coast.
Brant took the lead, a shadow barely limned against the darkness crouching in the cemetery by Jhurjan the Swift and Bold’s passing overhead. The horse’s hooves clopped through the silence overlying the cemetery. The sounds of the city taverns still open this late at night seemed far away.
Wick rode after Brant, his eyes roving constantly. Sonne rode behind him, and from the way she glanced around, Wick was certain she wasn’t any happier about the location than he was.
As Wick studied the graves, he noticed that several of them were open. Ornate caskets stripped of their gold inlays and accessories lay crushed and broken on the ground. Thieves hadn’t stopped at stealing from their victims when they’d been alive; they’d also stolen from the ones long dead as well.
Am I any different from them? Wick asked himself unhappily. Surely what they proposed to do was no different than the pilferers that had left skeletons scattered in their wave on the ground. But someone had left the mosaic behind, a map for someone clever and knowledgeable enough to find and decipher. Why leave a map behind if someone didn’t intend for whatever it was that had been hidden to be found? Whatever it was, it had to be important. But what would someone possibly hide in a crypt?
Fog drifted in from the sea, rolling up over the harbor and the nine ledges leading to the city proper. Clumps of fog drifted like twisting ghosts through the cemetery. Wick strove to reconcile himself with what they were about to do.
Voices echoed faintly across the cemetery grounds, coming from the city proper on the other side of the broken gate. Wagon wheels clattered across the cobblestone streets. In the fog and the darkness, Wick barely made out the dim lanterns that glowed through the windows of businesses still plying the late night trade. Goblinkin night patrols under Orpho Kadar’s command passed through the streets as well, their faces grim and hard beneath the wavering light of the flaming street torches and the lanterns they carried.
Twice, the little librarian spotted lean wolf-shapes dragging bones through the tangle of grave markers in the cemetery. His horse had shied from the strong smell of the wolf, but luckily it hadn’t bolted.
Sonne lifted the crossbow that hung from her saddle pommel and readied it. The arming click echoed hollowly in the cemetery. The presence of the weapon made Wick feel a little better, but was offset by the fact that it was behind him.
Brant explored the cemetery systematically. His attention shifted from crypt to crypt as the breeze blew over him. He seemed not to even notice the chill that made Wick shiver.
Less than twenty minutes later—twenty long minutes by Wick’s estimation—the master thief reined in his horse. Brant lifted his lantern, shoving the bull’s-eye cover out of the way. The cone of yellow light pierced the foggy darkness and lit up the broken remnants of a stained glass window at the back of a crypt.
If we hadn’t known to look for a crowing cock, Wick thought, staring at the scattered pieces of stained glass lying on the ground and remaining in the crypt’s small, inset window, we wouldn’t have found it.
All that remained of the rooster in the inset window was the red and green head, which could have easily been mistaken for a red flower. The white banner around it had been created from bleached limestone that had long since turned black with stain. Weeds and brush covered most of the broken shards that had fallen to the ground, but Brant’s careful eye, then the little librarian’s, caught sight of them.
“Hold my horse,” Brant whispered to Wick as he closed the lantern’s bull’s-eye again. “Keep it at the ready.” The master thief raised his leg over the saddle pommel and slid lithely to the ground. He handed the reins of his horse to the little librarian.
Dressed in black as he was, Brant melted into the shadows. Only his movement and Wick’s certain knowledge of where he was revealed him to the little librarian. The master thief kept one hand on his sword. Wick’s horse snorted and stamped its feet, shifting under him. Wick kept hold of his saddle horn and watched the cemetery grounds fence, thinking that some of the roving guards were going to catch them at any moment.
Sonne urged her own horse into motion, guiding it into a flanking position next to Wick’s so she had a clear field of fire.
Brant stepped around to the front of the crypt and peered inside. The wrought-iron doors hung ajar, draped in shadows. A leg bone—whether elven or human, Wick couldn’t tell—lay in the doorway. Drawing his sword, the master thief stepped on into the crypt.
Wick’s breath caught in his throat. Although he had only spent a few days with the thieves, the little librarian had come to respect the way they conducted their lives with each other. Except for Cobner, all of them were open about their feelings for each other. Wick knew it was due largely to the example Brant set. Thievery wasn’t a career the little librarian would ever choose for himself, but he respected the way Brant went about it. And he worried about the master thief now because without Brant around, Cobner might well make good his threat to slit the little librarian’s throat in some quiet part of the woods.
A long minute went by, then another. Wick fidgeted, glancing back over his shoulder as another pair of goblinkin guards rode past the cemetery’s entrance. He breathed a sigh of relief when neither of them even looked into the graveyard.
Another minute went by.
Wick watched the crypt entrance, starting to worry more. Something could have gotten Brant and we wouldn’t even know. The foul creature could be there in the darkness, waiting for its chance at us. The little librarian scented the air for fetid breath and animal musk, then listened intently for the sound of claws or teeth scraping along bone. The darkness remained complete, uninterrupted. We might not be alone. There could be a whole den of foul creatures camped out in that crypt. He glanced at Sonne and whispered, “Maybe we should—”
“Quiet!” she shot back. “We won’t leave Brant.” Her eyes never left the crypt entrance.
Chastised, Wick fell silent. He glanced at the trees overhead, making certain nothing was climbing through the naked, dead branches overhead to get at them unexpectedly.
Then a shadow eased from the crypt.
Standing up in her stirrups, Sonne lifted the crossbow.
“Sonne,” Brant called out softly, then stepped out into the moonlight so he could be clearly seen for only an instant. He didn’t look happy. “Someone has been in the crypt. The key isn’t there.” He crossed to his horse, taking the reins from Wick.
“Well, it was a long shot,” Wick said, more to convince himself than the master thief. “There’s no telling how long ago the key was left in the crypt. Did you find the keyhole?” He at least wanted affirmation that he’d been right about the mosaic.
“I found it,” Brant responded. “That’s why I want you to take a look in the crypt as well.”
“Me?” That was surely the last thing Wick wanted to do. “Surely you don’t think that I could find something when you—”
“Get off your horse,” Sonne ordered. “We don’t have time to waste.”
“I agree,” Wick said. “That’s why I thought it would be better if we just—”
Brant pierced him with a black-eyed glance. “Now.”
Wishing he were almost anywhere but in Serene Haven Cemetery, Wick stepped down from the horse’s saddle. He had to drop the last couple feet to reach the ground and very nearly fell on his rump. He joined Brant at the crypt’s entrance.
“I want another perspectiv
e, little artist,” Brant confided in a soft voice. “Perhaps I am missing something.” He swept aside the black silk sheet hanging over the door to the crypt and gestured the little librarian inside.
17
Skull-diggery!
Filled with dread, Wick stepped through the crypt entrance,. He hadn’t even seen Brant put the black silk sheet up, but now the little librarian understood why he hadn’t seen a light inside the crypt.
Brant placed rocks on the tail of the sheet to keep it in place against the gentle wind that followed them inside. The master thief took a glass candle from inside his cloak. For the first time in weeks, Wick smelled the fragrant odor of lummin juice. The sudden sharp sweet scent of it made him immediately homesick. Brant lit the candle with a tinderbox, then held the light high in the room so the soft glow filled the crypt.
For one mad moment, Wick imagined that perhaps some mind-controlling beast had overcome Brant in the darkness and the master thief might even now be setting him up for another such creature to slither in through his ears the way the mind spiders had in Cathel Ool’s Cerebral Crawlers and Other Puppetmasters. The little librarian glanced around the crypt fearfully, wondering if he would see the spiders swinging from their silken strands in the gloom.
A stone casket occupied the center of the room. Shelves lined two of the walls, but whatever had occupied them had long since been removed. Wick believed they had probably contained family histories and tokens of love or friendship. All of it was gone now. Stubs of wax candles stood on the shelves, and ashy remains of campfires offered mute testimony that others had occasionally used the crypt as a respite from the elements.
The casket’s stone cover lay in three broken chunks on the floor. Some of the carved stones that made up the flooring had been pried free and used to make the campfires. No body remained inside the casket, and only scraps of stained, deep red material stood out from the edges. The casket didn’t contain a key—or even a body.
