by David Cook
The lantern bearer continued their game and moved away just as Pinch reached the corner. The rogue broke into an off-stepped run.
Around the next corner, it happened again. Even in the instant his foot stepped into the void, Pinch cursed himself for blindly running into the trap. He lurched forward and this time he could sense there was no jagged stairs, only emptiness and death below.
The light knew it too and hurtled back into sight. It wasn’t a lantern bearer but a glowing diffusion of the air that throbbed eagerly in time with the man’s waves of pain and despair.
Pinch hung on the rim of the precipice forever, one second of time subdivided by his senses into eternity. The feeding light, the bottomless hole, the crumbling stone of the walls, the ever-steady plunge forward—so this is how I die. The thought came coolly to him.
In that infinite moment, Fate intervened—or something at least. It could have been blind chance, cosmic design, or the whim of some god Pinch had inadvertently forgotten to blaspheme. Two things occurred almost simultaneously, and were the rogue to examine them later, he would not be able to say what they both were. Out of his torn doublet swung the amulet he’d stolen from the Morninglord’s temple. As it hung free, the artifact flared with the brilliant hues of dawn washing out all sight with a roseate haze. The luring light dwindled against it as if in pain.
Ironic that I should die in a blaze of glory.
As the thought formed, something seized him. A strong hand or maybe a claw clenched around his arm and heaved him back.
And then the moment ended. The flare subsided, his plunge stopped, and he stood blinking in the darkness on the edge of nonexistence. A hand took his and pulled him away, and the rogue stumbled after, too stupefied to resist.
When his wits recovered, all was completely black. A hand, slender and feminine, led him through the darkness, around several corners, and up a flight of stairs. His guide moved with confidence through the ebon world.
“Who are you?” Pinch demanded as he stumbled in tow.
There was no answer.
Pinch tried to pull up, but the hand tugged him insistently forward.
“Trust.”
The words were the whisper of dried husks, papery brittle and filled with the music of tears. It was a voice Pinch had never heard, but still it seemed to wrap him in comfort.
“Trust me, little one.”
The hand pulled forward again.
Perhaps because his senses were dulled by all that had passed, the rogue let himself be led on.
Right, left, left, and more they went until at last they stopped. The invisible guide placed Pinch’s hand to the wall and whispered, “Up.” His foot blindly touched the bottom of a step.
“Up to safety. Go.” The guide gently pushed him forward and yet wanted to hold him back.
“Who are you?” The question finally formulated itself for him.
“A … friend. Go.” The voice struggled against a choking sob and then the hands left him.
He was alone in the darkness once more. Faintly through the air drifted the sound of weeping.
Pinch climbed, carefully groping out each step lest there were any more traps. No lights came to torment him, lead him astray, and the way climbed and twisted until he was sure he was back on the stairs to his room.
Along the way, the regulator fingered the amulet and wondered. What have I gotten into? Murderous dwarves, strange passages, mysterious saviors—it was all much more than he had bargained for. Did Cleedis know the mysteries that filled this palace? Would he even tell me if he did?
The stairs came to a platform and wall and Pinch felt out a handle. Pulling firmly, he dragged the stiff panel ajar, flooding his eyes with the blinding candlelight of his room.
Beyond the Grave
“Open the door, Janol. It’s time.”
From the other room came the relentless thump of a staff pounded against the door.
“This is your last chance before I have them break it down.” The muffled voice belonged to Cleedis, and he did not sound pleased.
Pinch hurried to the apartment door, but instead of opening it, he pulled a heavy chair over and wedged it under the door handle. If they went so far as to break the door, it would take them time and, looking in a mirror, he needed time.
First he pulled the wall shut. There was a chance that no one had magically scried his discovery of the passage, so there was no point in advertising it.
“Open it.”
Pinch worked quickly. Off came the torn and dusty clothes, replaced by a sleeping robe. Shoving the clothes out of sight, he brushed the cobwebs out of his curly gray hair and splashed cold water over his face. His raw hand stung, and clearing away the dirt only made the bruises and scratches on his face more vivid.
The door lock rasped and the guard’s key ratcheted in the lock. When they went to open the door, though, the chair slid for a few inches before wedging itself firmly into place.
“Dammit, Janol, do I have to break this door down?”
The door rattled on its hinges, and the chair creaked as someone bounced off the other side. Pinch could see an apoplectic Cleedis ordering his men to throw themselves at the barrier until it was shattered.
Pinch let them hit it a few more times so he could get a sense of their timing. The last thing he wanted to do was open up to face a flying wedge of guardsmen.
“Let your hounds off, Cleedis. I’m coming.”
Saying that, the regulator waited just to be sure. When no more thuds resounded through his suite, he unwedged the chair and sat in it.
“It’s open, Lord Chamberlain.”
A furious squall entered the room, beet red and thundering. The old soldier showed more fury and emotion than Pinch had seen in him since their first meeting. “And what was the purpose of that little game?”
“Privacy. I was sleeping.”
The hard sergeant in Cleedis growled disapproval. “It’s midday.”
Pinch shrugged.
“What happened to you?” the nobleman demanded, noticing Pinch’s battered face.
The rogue refrained from a smile, though the chamberlain had given him the opening for the tale he’d planned. “I had more visitors—Prince Vargo’s thugs. That’s another reason for the chair.”
“Vargo’s? Will it stand to the proof?”
“Does the prince make gifts of his livery?”
“My men were outside.” Cleedis’s voice was full of wishful loyalty.
“Indeed.” Though it hurt, Pinch raised an eyebrow in skepticism.
To that the old man could only stomp about the room, rapping the floor with frustration. Now Pinch allowed himself a smile, unable to restrain the malicious joy of his own handiwork any longer. There was no way to confirm his story, nor would any denial be trusted. Cleedis had no choice but to doubt his own men. There was even a chance the old soldier might set his men on Vargo’s. In any case, it was a weakness in the strength of his hosts and captors. Any weakness of theirs might give him an edge.
“Get dressed,” Cleedis ordered in his gruff sergeant’s voice. “We’re to meet your employer.”
“Finally.” As he rose to get dressed, Pinch kept his words sparse and light, although inside he was seething with curiosity and eagerness. At last there was a real chance of getting some answers.
He came back quickly, dressed and clean, and limping only slightly from his fall. Cleedis hadn’t expected such haste, but Pinch brushed that away as the desire to get on with his duties, though in truth he’d been partially dressed beneath his robe.
As they left the room, Cleedis dismissed the guards on the pretense they should rest their aching shoulders. Only the chamberlain’s personal bodyguard was to accompany them on this trip.
Hooded and cloaked more for secrecy than warmth, the small party rode from the postern gate of the palace toward the far side of Ankhapur. At first Pinch couldn’t figure where they were headed, but after they’d crossed several avenues and not turned off, he knew
. They were making for the grave field.
The common practice to get from place to place in bowl-shaped Ankhapur was to climb or descend to the avenue desired and then make a circuit around the center. The chamberlain had done neither. In leaving he wove through the interconnecting streets, first taking this boulevard then that avenue. The route was in part to reveal any unwanted followers, but after crossing the Street of Shames the only place left to go was the grave field.
No city likes its burial grounds, festering sores of evil. Too many things buried came back for such places to be safe. In a few cases, the dead came back of their own volition seeking revenge or just flesh. More often than not, the dead were disturbed by others—wizards and priests who saw the graves and crypts as raw material for their dark arts. The dead don’t like to be disturbed and generally make ill company for the living.
Thus, different cities adopt different strategies for dealing with the problem. Some bury their dead outside the city, others behind strong walls. In a few, cremation is the rule. Ankhapur used to dump its dead far out to sea, until the Year of the Watery Dead. In that year, Ankhapur’s ancestors returned: a host of sea zombies and things less wholesome that clambered over the docks seeking revenge on the city that had cast them away. The assault lasted more than a year, new waves of terror striking every night, before the undead host was finally overcome.
Aside from the death and destruction, the greatest consequence was that the citizens would no longer consign their kin to the waters. Burial and veneration of the dead suddenly became the way of things.
Unfortunately the city had grown without a burial ground and had no proper place for one. The farmlands around were all fiefs of the nobility, and no one could be persuaded to surrender lands for the dead. The only solution was to raze a section of the ghetto that lay just within the walls and crowd the crypts into there. To ensure the safety of the citizens, all the temples of Ankhapur, or at least those that could be trusted, were levied with the task of providing priests to guard the perimeter.
This was where they were headed—the Street of Crypts. As a youth, even though he’d been reckless and wild, Pinch had prudently avoided this district. All that he knew about it he knew by rumor, and the rumors were not pleasant.
The perimeter of the district was marked by a low wall, hardly enough to keep anyone out or anything in. At regular intervals along its length were small stone watchtowers. In each was a priest, probably bored or asleep, whose duty was to be ready with his spells and his faith lest the dead wander from their tombs.
The group waited at a small arch while the priests there set aside their books and prayers and undid the iron gate. The rusted hinges squealed for oil as they pushed the grill open. Pinch barely gave them a notice until he saw a tousle-haired woman among them: Lissa of the Morninglord. He considered greeting her, asking her how the search had gone, perhaps even giving her clues that he suspected someone, but there was no privacy and no time. Instead, he merely let his hood slip back so she could see his face, gave her a wink, and set his finger to his lips. She practically jumped with a start and gave it all away, but that wouldn’t have mattered much. Pinch just wanted her to feel a conspirator, to draw her farther into his web.
He and Cleedis left their horses and their bodyguard just inside the gate, and the commander gave word for the men to see to the animals and get themselves a drink. “What are you fearing?” the aged hero chided. “It’s day. We’ll be safe enough.”
The old ghetto district hadn’t been very large, and death was a popular pastime in Ankhapur—someone else’s death preferred to one’s own. The dead were crammed into the space so tight that the lanes between the crypts were barely big enough for a team of pallbearers to wind their way through. There was no grid or path through the grave markers. The route had all the organization of spaces between a tumble of child’s blocks. The way went straight, branched, and shunted constantly. In an effort to squeeze more space for the honored dead, crypts stood upon crypts. A staircase would suddenly wind up to another lane that ran along the roof of a mausoleum, passing the sealed niches of yet more bodies.
The ornamentation on each building was just as haphazard, dictated by the fashion of the decade and what the family could afford. In one dark corner a fountain perpetually splashed up bubbles of a tune loved by someone in the last century, now more a tribute to some wizard’s art. From the cracks around a crypt door blazed rays of endless sunlight from within, as good an assurance against vampires and wights as any Pinch had seen. A foul-faced carven gargoyle fixed over another door howled aloud the sins of all who were buried within. Pinch stopped to listen a bit, rather impressed by the litany of villainies, until Cleedis testily urged him on.
They had plunged a considerable way in when the narrow path yawned into an improbable courtyard, not large but jarringly empty nonetheless. Nothing should be open here, so this space was the ultimate in conspicuous arrogance.
On one side was the royal tomb, of course. No other family could command such real estate in this cramped necropolis. The mausoleum itself was a fixture of restrained style, trumpeting its tastefulness in contradiction to its garish neighbors. The other crypts around the square, noble families all, sported hideous monsters, garish polychrome colors, and overwrought iron ivy. They were a mishmash of styles over the centuries. If Pinch were of the mind to, he could have read the tastes of Ankhapur as they passed over the years.
Cleedis sat himself on a bench some kin had thoughtfully provided just in case their dearly departed wanted to rise and catch a little sun. The old man, stooped and wrinkled, looked a part of the landscape. He fiddled with his sword, as was his wont when he was compelled to do nothing but wait. Waiting ill suited him; he was once a man of action and the habit of patience had long ago been marched out of him.
“Lo, here. You’ve escorted me this far to sit?”
“Bide your time, thief.”
Pinch sighed and leaned himself against a wall. Knowing they were to wait, he could do a masterful job of it. Half his career was waiting with one eye to the mark and the other ever watchful for the constables. He fished two bales of dice from his pocket and practiced his foists, throwing first one set and then changing it by a quick sleight.
Some time went by in this manner, until the old man nodded into a doze on the sun-warmed bench. Just as Pinch was considering nipping the chamberlain’s purse and rings, the door to the royal crypt creaked open.
“Janol, it has been a long time.”
The blood ran in icy droplets down the length of Pinch’s spine.
“No kind greeting?”
It was the voice that froze him, a bass growl where each word was sharply enunciated. He hadn’t heard that voice in fifteen years. It was different, a little thinner and breathy, but there was no mistaking.
He didn’t expect to ever hear it again, either.
“Manferic?”
A dry chuckle echoed from inside the tomb. “ ‘Your Highness, King Manferic,’ my ungrateful ward.”
“You’re … dead. Or you’re supposed to be.”
There was a long pause. “What if I am? Death is only another challenge.”
Pinch swallowed hard. For maybe the second time in his life, at least since he was old enough to appreciate his feelings, Pinch was scared. Deep, hard squeezing-in-the-gut scared. It was like a cold snake coiling around his throat, squeezing on his lungs till his breath came hard.
“Come here.” The dark shape moved closer to the open doorway, always taking care to skirt the shafts of light.
Pinch shook his head fiercely against that suggestion. He was not about to step into the dark with that thing. The living Manferic had been enough to drive him away; an undead one, if Manferic was truly dead, could only be worse.
“State your business with me,” the rogue croaked out, doing his best to sound bold.
“I’ve watched your progress, son.” Manferic had always called his ward “son.” Pinch was never sure if it was mocker
y or done just to irritate Manferic’s true sons. It certainly wasn’t love. The king hadn’t an ounce in him then, and there was certainly none left now. “You did me proud.”
“I wasn’t trying to. What do you want?” The rogue kept fear at bay through his bluster.
The shadow sighed within. “And I hoped this would be a warm and touching reunion. I need a thief.”
“Why me? There’s ten score of them in Ankhapur, and more than a few are a match for me.” Pinch bumped into something solid behind him. He jumped, but it was only a pillar.
“I need someone discreet and with no connections here in Ankhapur. You.”
Pinch assumed this was a lie. In life, Manferic had never been this direct.
“You are to steal the Cup and the Knife.”
The Cup and Knife! Ankhapur’s symbols of royal prerogative and the two holiest artifacts in the city. It was only through them that one of the four princes would be able to claim Manferic’s throne. Now Pinch was beginning to understand why Cleedis had been stalling the ceremony. Cleedis and Manferic, or more likely Manferic and Cleedis, were plotting something.
“It won’t stop them from choosing a new king. They’ll get their king with or without the test.”
The voice chuckled again, and Pinch imagined hearing the echoes of heartless mirth.
“They will never know. You’re going to switch them with another set. Another Cup and Knife. I have them here. Cleedis arranged for them to be made. Come and get them.”
Pinch was immovable. “Bring them out.”
The dark crypt echoed with a rasping hiss. “That would be difficult. At a future time.”
“Set them in the light, then.”
A charcoal gray bundle slid just barely into the light that poured through the ajar door. No hand or foot came into view.
“And after I’ve made the exchange?”
The voice from the crypt answered. “Give everything to Cleedis. He will know what to do.”