The Rover

by Mel Odom

  “It’s empty?” Wick said.

  “Yes,” Brant replied, sounding irritated.

  “What about the body?” Wick asked. Now that his curiosity was aroused—and there were no mind spiders lurking about—the little librarian found himself caught up in the mystery.

  “There are three. One is obviously fresh.” Brant moved the lummin juice candle to the far corner of the crypt. Two skeletons and a dead man that had been there for months occupied the corner. All of them had been stripped of their clothing.

  “Did you check the inside of the casket?” Wick asked.

  “Thoroughly,” Brant answered. “If there were any hidden or recessed areas, I would have found them.”

  Wick believed him. Brant had shown himself to be quite capable. “Show me the keyhole.”

  Brant moved the candle to the back of the room.

  On one hand, the little librarian wanted nothing more than to quit the crypt. Fear slithered restlessly through him, staying barely under control. He followed the master thief to the back wall. The broken stained-glass window let in the wind and a cautious curl of curious fog.

  “Those who’ve been in this crypt before have never found the keyhole,” Brant said softly. “And it’s not a painting that the keyhole is hidden behind.” He brushed at the hammock webs he’d broken in his earlier exploration of the crypt.

  Soot from the campfires and years of accumulated dirt and grit had caked over the picture of the elven profile rendered on the stone there in bas-relief. Brant pulled away the hammock webs, then caught the point of his dagger under one corner of the picture. Stone rasped against metal for a moment, then the picture pulled forward with a creak.

  “Concealed hinges,” Brant said. “Some of the finest work I’ve ever seen. If you hadn’t told me about the existence of it I wouldn’t have known it was here.” He held the candle closer to the small door. “And look how thin this door is.” He held it between his fingers. “Fantastic workmanship.”

  Wick ran his fingers along the small door. It was hardly as wide as a sheet of paper and looked like it had been crafted of a single sheet of slate dyed alabaster to match the crypt’s interior. Rainwater had left rust stains over decades or even hundreds of years.

  “Do you recognize the elf in the picture?” Brant asked.

  Studying the stern features, Wick experienced a momentary feeling of recognition, but it quickly faded. The elf looked to be in his middle years, with the high cheekbones and pointed ears of his kind. His beardless cheeks gave him a more youthful appearance than his eyes gave him reason to claim. The elf had been a man used to getting his way, and the little librarian wondered how the elf had died. Had it been during the carnage wreaked by Lord Kharrion when the Goblin Lord had reshaped the Shattered Coast? Or had it been during the later sacking of Dream by the goblinkin hordes?

  “No,” the little librarian answered when he realized Brant still awaited an answer.

  Brant nodded. “Pity. Maybe if you’d known who he was you might have remembered something else you’d read about him.”

  “I can read,” Wick said automatically.

  “I believe you, little artist,” the master thief said. “I was only commenting, not disparaging. Now, have you a look at the locking mechanism.”

  Wick had to stand on tiptoe to peer better at the keyhole. The opening looked like it had only been made yesterday, completely clean and flawless. The keyhole was as big as two of his fingers together. Before he knew what he was doing, the little librarian reached up and thrust two fingers into the opening.

  “That,” Brant advised, “was not overly bright.”

  Wick, realizing then what his curiosity had made him do, yanked his fingers back from the keyhole. They’d fit very easily. Dark liquid coated the little librarian’s fingers. Poison! his frantic mind insisted, and he awaited the sudden clench of nausea that he thought might cramp his stomach. How did I manage to do such a thoughtless thing? Dwellers know better than to do something so foolish! My da taught me not to do something so foolish! I’m going to die! He turned to Brant. “I’ve been poisoned!”

  “That’s grease,” the master thief said, examining the liquid on the little librarian’s fingers. “They packed the tumblers so they would stay in good shape. That was one of the heartening things I discovered.”

  “Oh. Grease.” Wick wiped his fingers on his breeches in relief. “You’d know poison from grease, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Brant replied. “Goblinkin are notorious for their use of poisons. Most of them are not very exotic or quick-acting, though, and I know how to concoct remedies for most of them.” He moved closer, peering into the locking mechanism. “I’ve also seen them put blades inside locks. Usually, the blades are intended to snap lockpicks and jam the lock so that a thief is left with no recourse except to somehow pry a hiding place or vault door from the moorings. Of course, there are any number of less salacious thieves that have left fingers inside locks.”

  Fingers? Wick glanced at his own digits and almost felt sick. How could I handle a quill at the Library if I lost my fingers? The thought was absolutely horrifying. He put his hands in his pockets in case any other regressive dweller habits suddenly showed up in him. I have been in uncivilized areas for far too long. Greydawn Moors is the only safe place for me. He cleared his throat so Brant couldn’t hear the fear and tension in it. “Surely you can pick the lock then.”

  “I’ve tried,” Brant admitted. “Somehow, skilled as I am in locksmithing, this design has defeated my best efforts. I find that most curious.” He moved the candle around, probing the locking mechanism with his eyesight and not his fingers.

  “Then it’s no use,” Wick said.

  “No,” Brant replied. “I haven’t yet given up on this exercise. There still remains the possibility of driving anchor bolts into the door and trying to tear it from the wall.”

  “But,” Wick protested, “that’s going to cause a lot of noise. The goblinkin patrols would come to investigate.”

  Brant glanced at him. “Perhaps not, little artist. Those goblinkin aren’t quite as dedicated as you’d think, considering how bloodthirsty and unforgiving Orpho Kadar is. And a slight diversion isn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.”

  “A diversion?”

  “Yes.” The master thief smiled. “Young Hamual is quite adept at diversions.”

  “But he would be risking discovery.”

  “As are we at this very moment.”

  Fear traipsed down Wick’s spine on ice-cold mouse paws. He glanced around the crypt, wishing he were anywhere but there. Then the little librarian’s eyes lit on the three bodies in the corner. “Brant.”

  “What?” the master thief asked, poking at the wall around the bas-relief door with his dagger.

  “One of the skeletons in the corner belongs to an elf,” Wick said. He could tell from the elongated shape of the skull. Torluud’s Elven Bodies and Physiography and Bumps or Knots, Krystark’s Study of Elven Phrenology were both excellent resources on the subject of elven craniums. Both tomes had been interesting reading, but Wick had never managed to get his hands on any elven skulls—and he would not have wanted to study the detached kind.

  “So?”

  “Do you think it could belong to the person who was in this casket?”

  “Would it matter?”

  Wick hesitated a moment before putting his thoughts into words. “What if the map didn’t mean that the key was under the skull? Neither of us found a depression in the casket where the key could have been found.”

  “Then where do you think it might—” Brant turned to gaze at Wick, then at the two skeletons. A hesitant smile flickered to life on his face. “Of course. Hold this.” He held the lummin juice candle out.

  In a daze, his mind cringing from the possibility that he had suggested, Wick accepted the candle. “What are you going to do?”

  “Have a look at those skulls.” Brant crossed the room and pulled the corpse from
the picked-clean skeletons. He dumped his disgusting burden unceremoniously into the casket. Then he knelt by the remaining skeletons. “Which of these is an elven skeleton?”

  “The one on bottom,” Wick said. “You can tell by the elongated skull, and by the canines, which in advanced years have a tendency—”

  Brant grabbed the top skeleton and threw it into the corner by the door covered by the black silk sheet. “The one on the bottom is enough.” The skeleton landed on the crypt floor with a rattle of bones.

  “Brant!” Sonne whispered from outside.

  “I’m fine,” Brant called back. “Keep watch.” He hauled the skeleton left in the corner out into better view. Seizing the skull in both hands, the master thief gave an experienced twist that popped the skull free of the spine with a splintering crack. He grinned as he held his prize up. “There! Easy as taking a grape from a vine.”

  Wick wretched before he could stop himself. The sour taste of bile burst at the back of his throat.

  “Don’t be sick,” Brant warned. “I don’t want anyone to know we’ve been here if we can help it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wick replied.

  “It’s just a skull, little artist.” Brant held the skull up on one palm. Shadows filled the dark hollows of the eye sockets. “And I assure you, whoever this was no longer has need of it. Move the light over here a little closer.”

  Still fighting the gag reflex, Wick unwillingly stepped forward.

  Brant turned the skull over slowly. A hollow click sounded. A smile twisted the master thief’s lips. “You have proven invaluable, little artist.”

  Wick took some solace in that. At least Cobner might not be slitting his throat any time soon.

  “There’s something in there,” Brant said. He shook the skull with the eye sockets turned down. “But something’s holding it back.” He glanced around, then picked up a rock chunk as large as a dinner plate. “How quick are you?”

  “Wh-what?” Wick stammered.

  Brant handed him the skull. “Hold this on the floor so I can hit it with the rock.”

  The little librarian’s stomach recoiled. He’d read several books about physicians and healers during his years at the Library. For a time, Grandmagister Ludaan had assigned Wick to the medical books. The little librarian much preferred reading those works concerning magical healing and herbalists than those involving bone saws and surgical knives. But he’d never wanted to hold a dead man’s skull. His skin crawled at the touch of the rough, cold surface of the skull.

  “Well?” Brant prompted, holding his rock chunk in both hands above his head.

  Wick placed the skull on the stone floor.

  “Ready?” Brant asked.

  “I think so,” Wick replied.

  Brant raised the rock higher. “Steady, then. Just remember to yank your hand back. Having you screaming in the graveyard isn’t going to go unnoticed.”

  Wick nodded, wondering if a crunching skull would go unnoticed.

  “Now!” Brant said.

  The effort reminded Wick of games dweller children played back in Greydawn Moors to test their reflexes against each other. He held the skull steady for an instant after Brant started his swing.

  The master thief didn’t hesitate and held nothing back.

  Wick yanked his hand back, then the rock smashed into the skull. The little librarian tried not to think about what the original owner of the skull would think about the use they showed his mortal remains.

  Bone snapped and broken skull shards spilled out from under Brant’s rock.

  Surprisingly, the crunch! wasn’t very loud inside the crypt. Wick had another nauseating moment when he realized the skull seemed to collapse more than shatter.

  Brant moved his rock. “Bring the candle over here.”

  Controlling himself through what he considered a stupendous effort of will, Wick moved closer. Brant’s fingers flew through the wreckage of the skull. Then a metallic sheen caught the little librarian’s eye. “There!”

  “Ah!” Brant gasped. He smiled as he plucked up the key. “Well, here’s one individual who certainly had a lot on his mind at one time.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Do you suppose he gave instruction to those who buried him that it was supposed to insert it after his death? Or do you believe he might have had some wizard magick it into his head?”

  “I prefer not to think about that at all.” Wick brushed his hands against his traveling cloak but couldn’t rid himself of the sensation of the skull’s rough exterior. Actually, he didn’t think he would ever forget it.

  “Do you know what would be ironic?” Brant asked as he faced the locking mechanism in the wall.

  “What?” Wick asked, following the master thief.

  “It would be very ironic if this were the wrong key.”

  Actually, Wick thought, that would be terrible. He could see Brant organizing a party to search all the skeletons lying out in the graveyard, ordering that all the skulls be smashed and searched.

  Brant thrust the key into the locking mechanism and turned. A series of ratchets echoed faintly in the crypt. The sound of Brant’s breathing sounded louder in Wick’s ears.

  Then the slightly recessed area on the wall fell into a million pieces, dropping away to reveal a wall less than a hand span deep.

  “A wall?” Brant took the lummin juice candle from Wick’s hand and played it over the recessed area.

  The little librarian, his curiosity overcoming his nausea and fear, moved closer.

  “What kind of insane joke is this?” Brant asked angrily. “Who would go to the trouble of building such a hidden area for no reason?”

  Wick stared at the wall. Like the bas-relief hiding the keyhole—which didn’t appear to exist anymore—the wall resembled a door and was created of a single sheet of slate, except that this was black. “It’s not made of stones,” the little librarian said.

  “What?” Brant glanced at him irritably.

  “The wall,” Wick pointed out. “It’s made of a piece of slate that overlays the stones that make up the crypt. I was just thinking that it was odd that it would be constructed in such a fashion.”

  “Unless there was another reason.” Hope flared on Brant’s handsome face. “My father had such hiding places in our home. I remember finding some of them when I was a young boy. He was sorely vexed at me. But at that age, my curiosity did little to endear me to him.”

  “My own da shares the same opinion of my own curiosity,” Wick admitted.

  “Your father is still alive?” Brant ran his dagger blade over the slate, and the rasp of metal on stone prickled the little librarian’s neck.

  “When I last saw him, he was,” Wick said.

  “Are you close to him?”

  Wick hesitated. “It’s—it’s hard these days. Things are strained between us.”

  “Why?” Brant turned to face the little librarian, as if the answer to that question was more important than the conundrum before them.

  Wick suddenly remembered that Brant’s own family had been lost to a headsman’s axe, although he still didn’t know what those circumstances were. “Da didn’t approve of what I chose to do with my life.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Wick hesitated. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Still carrying secrets, little artist?”

  “It’s nothing that would hurt you or anyone,” Wick replied earnestly, “but it is someone else’s secret, and I’m oathbound to keep it.”

  “Truly, you are an enigma. Where did you hail from?”

  “I can’t tell you that either.”

  Brant nodded, his eyes focused on Wick’s. “I thank you for not trying to lie to me.”

  Wick’s throat tightened. “I know you saved me from the arena, and I know you’ve stood up for me when Cobner would have slit my throat. I thank you for that.”

  “Don’t think me altruistic, little artist.” A grim cloud crossed Brant’s face. “If I were out to save slaves from Ha
nged Elf’s Point, there are hundreds who yet remain unsaved. And I have no plans to rescue them. I saved you for my own purposes.”

  “I know,” Wick admitted, not holding the master thief’s motivations against him. “Were I to paint you remiss in their salvation, I’d have to consider myself the same.”

  Brant eyed him. “Do you?”

  Wick dropped his eyes, feeling suddenly guilty. “Yes. Today, when I realized that you weren’t going to have Cobner simply kill me—or even do that job yourself—I suddenly thought of how I’m still alive when so many that I shared that slave pen with are now dead.” He wondered briefly about Harran, and regretted that the other dwellers had ever found reason to ostracize him.

  “And now you feel guilty because you’re alive and they probably aren’t?”

  Wick took a shuddering breath, feeling the weight of all that responsibility and guilt washing over him, and nodded. “I’m glad I’m not dead, Brant. It shames me that I feel that so strongly.”

  Brant was silent for a moment, then reached out and tousled Wick’s hair. “Only a man who has come so close to death can ever know the true joy of living. Such knowledge doesn’t come without a price, and usually a price that should never have to be paid.”

  Wick nodded.

  “But you have to keep in mind, little artist, that you have paid a price for your continued existence. Once you have lived when others have died, you feel you owe a debt to keep on living.”

  “How did you go on after you lost your family?” Wick asked before he thought such a question was wrong to ask.

  “One day at a time,” Brant replied grimly, his voice coldly neutral in the confines of the crypt. “I was little more than a boy when I lost them.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Brant nodded and let out a deep breath. “Such talk is not a pleasant subject. We’d do better to save it for another time. Preferably a time when we were far from here and had our purses full.”

  Wick nodded.

  “Your father didn’t like the work you decided to take on,” Brant said. “What did he want you to do?”

  “Become a lamplighter in my town as he was.”