Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  Aye, but then I get preached at, or I get asked what I want. They find me i' the crypt, they run me out, sure as sure. Them Priests is like ants, always where ye don' want 'em. Wisht I could find me a Temple crypt wi' nawt about.

  Well… maybe he could; there were plenty of the highborn who had their own chapels, and private crypts, too, in the city cemeteries. There, he'd run little risk of being disturbed.

  Some might have second thoughts about seeking a nap among the dead, but Skif wasn't one of them.

  A candlemark later, Skif slipped down the stairs of a private chapel in one of the cemeteries reserved for the highborn. The chapel was above, where those who were queasy about any actual contact with the dead could pray; Skif headed down into the family crypts. Said lordling was gone, the house shut up, with only a couple ol maids and an old dragon of a housekeeper. So there wouldn't be any impromptu visits by the family. The chapel had been locked, but that was hardly going to stop Skif.

  He'd picked this place in particular because the family was known for piety and familial pride—and because there hadn't been a death in more than a year. Napping among the dead was one thing; napping among the recently-interred was another. And family pride, Skif hoped, would have seen to it that the crypt was kept clean and swept. He didn't mind the dead, but spiders were something else and gave him the real horrors.

  It was darker than the inside of a pocket down here, but his hunch had been right. It was blessedly cool, and he pressed his overheated body up against the cold marble walls with relief while he waited for his eyes to adjust. Some light did filter down the staircase from the chapel windows above, and eventually Skif was able to make out the dim shape of a stone altar, laden with withered flowers, against the back wall. He sniffed the air carefully, and his nose was assaulted by nothing worse than dust and the ghosts of roses.

  There were two rows of tombs, each bearing the name and station of its occupant graven atop it. No statues here; this family wasn't quite lofty enough for marble images of its dead adorning the tombs.

  Skif yawned, and felt his way to the stone table at the back of the chapel, meant for flower offerings. Just in case someone came down here, he planned to take his nap in the shadows beneath it.

  Stone didn't make a particularly yielding bed, but he'd slept on stone plenty of times before this; it would be no worse than sleeping on the floor of his uncle's tavern, and a lot quieter.

  He was very pleased to note that his hunch had paid off; even beneath the table there wasn't much dust. He laid himself out in the deep shadow with his back pressed against the wall and his head pillowed on his arm. The stone practically sucked the heat right out of his body, and in moments, for the first time in days, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  It seemed only heartbeats later that something jolted him awake.

  He froze, his eyes snapping open, and saw the wavering light of a single candle illuminating the staircase he had only just crept down.

  "Yer certain-sure there ain't gonna be nobody here?"

  That's Jass! Skif thought in shock. What's he doing here?

  Surely not grave robbing—the amount of work it would take to get into one of these tombs was far beyond anything the Jass that Skif knew would be willing to do! Even supposing there was anything of value interred there…

  "I'm quite sure," said a smooth and cultured voice. "Rovenar and his family are at his country estate, and none of his father's friends are still alive to pay him a graveside visit. Besides, it would hardly matter if anyone did come. I have the key; Rovenar trusts me to see that no one gets in here to work any mischief in his absence. If anyone should appear, I am simply doing him that favor, and you, my servant, have accompanied me."

  "Servant?" Jass growled. It was amazing how well the stairs worked to funnel sound down here; Skif would have thought they were in the same room with him.

  The voice laughed. "Bodyguard, then." The voice was clearly amused at Jass' attitude toward being taken as a servant.

  It occurred to Skif that if he was seeing the light of a candle up there, it must be later than he'd thought when he was initially startled awake. It must have been the turning of the key in the lock on the chapel door that woke him, and he blessed the owner who had put in a door that locked itself on closing.

  Whatever brought Jass and the unknown gentleman here, it had to be something out of the ordinary.

  "What'd ye want t' meet here for?" Jass grumbled. "Place fair gives me th' creeps."

  "It is cool, it is private, and we stand no chance of being overheard," the voice replied. "And because I have no mind to pay a call on you. I pay you; you can accommodate yourself to me."

  Skif winced. Nothing could have been clearer than the contempt in those words.

  But either Jass was inured to it, or he was oblivious to it.

  Mebbe he just don't care. Anyone who'd been entrusted with the key to a lordling's chapel had to have money, at least, and the song of that money must ring in Jass's ears, deafening him to anything else.

  "So wut's th' job this time that you don' want ears about?" Jass asked bluntly. "It better pay better nor last time."

  "It will," the voice said coolly. "Not that you weren't paid exactly what the last job was worth—and I suspect you made somewhat more, afterward. I'm given to understand that you are considered something of an information broker."

  "Ye never give me enuff fer quiet," Jass said sullenly.

  Skif felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. Bloody 'ell! This's where Jass gets 'is stuff about th' highborns!

  "I don't pay for what I don't require," the voice countered. "Just remember that. And remember that when I do pay for silence, I expect it. Don't disappoint me, Jass. You'll find I'm a different man when I've been disappointed."

  A shiver ran down Skif's back at the deadly menace of that voice, and he was astonished that Jass didn't seem to hear it himself. Jass was either oblivious or arrogant, and neither suggested he'd be enjoying life for very much longer unless he realized he was treading on perilous ground. "Th' job," he simply prompted impatiently, quite as if he was the one in charge and not his client.

  "Simple enough," the smooth, cultured voice replied. "Another fire, like the one I commissioned last winter. But this time, I don't want any cleverness on your part. No earth tar, no pine tar, no oil or mineral spirits; nothing to encourage the blaze. The warehouse will be left open for you, so start it from the inside."

  Skif froze; he couldn't have moved to save his life. There it was—everything he'd been looking for. Except that he couldn't see who Jass was talking to, and he'd never heard that voice before.

  Jass growled. "Ain't gonna burn good," he complained. "Might even save it, if—"

  "Nonsense," the voice replied firmly. "In this heat and as dry as it's been? It'll go up like chaff. People were suspicious the last time, Jass. There were enquiries. I had a great deal of covering up to do. It was exceedingly inconvenient for me, a considerable amount of totally unexpected work. What's more, some of that work went to saving your neck. Some of the tenants didn't get out—and if the fire had been traced back to you, they'd have hanged you for murder."

  Jass actually laughed, but it had a nasty sound to it. "Well, they didn't, did they? Tha's cuz there weren't no witnesses. I seen t' that. Tha's why people didn' all get out. 'Cause I quieted 'em."

  Skif's heart turned to ice.

  "And that is supposed to show me how clever you are?" The man snorted. "You're very good at what you do, Jass, and my lord Orthallen gave you high recommendations, but you've become arrogant and careless. Stick to what you're told to do. Don't try to be clever. And if you get caught, I'll wash my hands of you, don't think I won't."

  "Jest gimme th' job," Jass growled, and the voice related details and instructions.

  Jass thinks if 'e's caught, 'e kin turn 'is coat an' tell on milord, there, savin' 'is own neck. But Skif was listening, as Jass was not, and he knew that if Jass was ever caught, his life wasn't wort
h a bent pin. If there was even the chance that the Watch was on to Jass, his employer would ensure his silence in the most effective way possible.

  It wouldn't take much—just another interview in an out-of-the-way place like this one. Only Jass would not be meeting "milord," and there would be an extra corpse in the cemetery.

  There was a metallic chink as money passed from one hand to another, and Jass counted it.

  "Remember what I said," the voice warned. One set of footsteps marked the owner's transit to the door of the chapel, and Jass got up to follow. "Don't get creative. Just set the fire, and get out."

  "Awright, awright," Jass sneered. "My lord."

  The light vanished; the candle must have been put out. The door swung quietly open on well-oiled hinges, with only a faint sigh of displaced air to mark it opening. Then it shut again with a hollow sound, and the key rattled in the lock.

  'E's gettin' away! I dunno 'oo 'e is, an 'e's gettin' away!

  Skif practically flew up the stairs, no longer caring if he was discovered, so long as he could see who that voice belonged to!

  Too late. Not only were they gone, he couldn't even hear footsteps. He flung himself at the windows—hopeless; not only was it dark outside, but the windows didn't open and they were made of colored glass as well. There was no way he could see anything through them—except for one single blob of light, a lantern, perhaps, receding into the darkness. He returned to the door, but you couldn't just open it from within once you got inside, it had to be unlocked from the inside as well as from the outside. Cursing under his breath, he got out his lock picks again, knowing that this would cost him yet more time, in the dark and fumbling in his hurry.

  He cursed his clumsy fingers and the lock picks that suddenly turned traitor on him; at last he heard the click of the tumblers and wrenched the wretched door open.

  There wasn't a single light to be seen within the four walls of the cemetery. They'd gotten far enough away that they were out of sight among the tombs, and by now Jass and his employer would have gone their separate ways, with nothing to show the connection between them, nothing to prove that "milord" wasn't just paying a sentimental or pious visit on the anniversary of someone's death.

  No! Skif wasn't going to give up that easily.

  From here there was only a single path winding among the chapels, crypts, and trees, and Skif tore up it. There were only two entrances, and he thought he knew which one "milord" would take. He had to catch the man before he left the cemetery—he had to! He had to know—

  With his heart pounding and his eyes burning with rage, he abandoned everything but the chase. At a point where two private chapels faced one another across the path, where he might have slowed, just in case there was someone lurking in the shadows, he only sped up.

  And at the last moment as he passed between them, too late to avoid the ambush, he sprung a trap on himself.

  A trap that took the form of a cord stretched at knee-height along the path.

  Skif hit it, and went flying face-first into the turf. The impact knocked the breath out of him and left him stunned just long enough for the ambusher to get on top of him and pin him down.

  He fought—but his opponent was twice his size and had probably forgotten more dirty tricks than Skif knew. Ruthless, methodical, he made short work of one young boy. Before he could catch the breath that had been knocked out of him by the fall, Skif found himself gagged, his hands tied behind his back, pulled to his feet, and shoved into one of those two chapels.

  The door shut with an ominous brazen clang. Skif's feet were kicked out from beneath him before he could lash out at his captor, and he went to the floor like a sack of meal.

  There was a rattle of metal, and the shutter of a dark lantern opened. Skif blinked, eyes watering at the light, as the craggy sell-sword who had bought so much information from Jass peered down at him

  "Well, well. A trap for a fox I set, and I catch a rabbit," the man said, looking down at Skif with no humor in his face whatsoever. He wasn't talking like one of the denizens of Haven's rough streets anymore; he had an accent that Skif couldn't place. "Now, why is it, I wonder, that wherever I find Jass, also you I find?"

  Skif glared at him over the gag, daring him to try something. Not that he had the slightest idea of what he was going to do if the man made a move…

  But the man only stooped swiftly, and seized one of Skif's ankles. Kick as hard as he could, Skif could do nothing against the man's greater strength; at the cost of a bump on the head that made him see stars, he gained nothing and found himself with both ankles trussed and tied to his wrists, which were in turn tied behind his back. Only then did the man take off the gag, taking care not to let his hands get within range to be bitten.

  He squatted easily beside Skif, sitting on his heels. "I believe it's time speech we have, you and I," he said, frowning. "And it is that I hope for your sake that you aren't Jass' errand boy."

  He stared hard at Skif for a long time; Skif worked his jaw silently, and continued to glare at him, although he was beginning to feel a little—odd. As if there was something messing about inside his head.

  So if 'e wants ter talk, why don't 'eget on wi' it? he thought furiously. And at that exact moment, the man smiled grimly, and nodded to himself.

  "What were you doing here?" the sell-sword asked as soon as Skif's mouth was clear of the threads the cloth had left on his tongue.

  "Sleepin'!" Skif spat, and snarled in impotent fury. If it hadn't been for this bastard, he'd have found out who Jass' employer was! He made up his mind not to tell the man one word more than he had to.

  "In a cemetery?" The man raised one eyebrow.

  Skif found angry words tumbling out of his mouth, despite his resolution not to talk. "Wha's it matter t'you? Or them? They's not gonna care—an' it's a damn sight cooler an' quieter here than anywheres else! Them highborns is all playin' out i'country, they ain't gonna know 'f I wuz here!"

  "You have a point," the man conceded, then his face hardened again. "But why is it that you just happen sleeping to be in the same place where Jass goes to have a little chat?"

  "How shud I know?" Skif all but wailed. "I drops off, next thing I knows, he's up there yappin' t' summun an' I wanta know who!"

  If he'd had his hands free, he'd have clapped both of them over his mouth in horror. His tongue didn't seem to be under his control—what was happening to him?

  "Oh, really?" The man's other eyebrow arched toward his hairline. "And why is that?"

  "Becuz Jass' the bastid what set th' big fire an' burned me out—an' the mun whut was with 'im wuz th' mun what paid 'im t' do it!" Skif heard himself saying frantically. "I know'd it, cuz I 'eerd 'im say so! 'Is boss set 'im another fire t' start right whiles I was listenin'! An' I wanta know who he is cuz I'm gonna get 'im, an' then I'm gonna get Jass, an—"

  "Enough." The man held up a sword-callused palm, and Skif found his flood of angry words cut off again. Just in time, too; there had been tears burning in his eyes, and he didn't want the man to see them. He blinked hard to drive them away, but he couldn't do much about the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.

  Wut in hell is happenin' to me?

  But the man darted out a hand, quick as a snake, and grabbed Skif's shoulder and shook it. That hand crushed muscle and bone and hurt—

  "Now, to me you listen, boy, and engrave my words on your heart you will—" the man said, leaning forward until all Skif could see were his hawk-sharp, hawk-fierce eyes. "You playing are in deeper waters than you know, and believe me, to swim in them you cannot hope. Your nose out of this you keep, or likely someone is to fish you out of the Terilee, with a rock around your ankles tied, if find you at all they do."

  Skif shuddered convulsively, and an involuntary sob fought its way out of his throat. The man sat back on his heels again, satisfied.

  "Jass will to worry about shortly, much more than the setting of fires have," the man said darkly. "And he will answer for the many
things he has responsible been for."

  "But—"

  "That is all you need to know," the man said forcefully, and the words froze in Skif's throat.

  The sell-sword pulled out a knife, and for one horrible moment, Skif thought that he was dead.

  But the man laid it on the floor, just out of reach, and stood up. "Too clever you are, by half," he said, with a grim little smile. "Now, about my business I will be. The moment I leave, getting yourself loose you can be about. Manage you will, quite sure I am."

  He dropped the shield over the dark lantern, plunging the chapel into complete blackness. In the next moment, although Skif hadn't heard him move, the door opened, a tall, lean shadow slipped through it, and it closed again.

  Skif lost no time in wriggling over the stone floor to the place where the man had left the knife. When he was right on top of it, he wriggled around until he could grab it. As soon as he got it into his hands, he sawed through the cord binding his wrists to his ankles. Not easy—but not impossible. The man had left him enough slack in his ropes to do just that.

  Once that was cut, he managed to contort his body enough to get his arms back over to the front of himself and then sawed through the bindings at ankle and wrist. It was a good knife; sharp, and well cared for. If it didn't cut through the cords holding him as if they were butter, he wasn't forced to hack at them for candlemarks either.

  But all the time his hands were working, his mind was, too.

  Who—and what—was that man? How had he managed to get Skif to tell him everything he knew? Why did he want to know so much about Jass?

  Why'd 'e lemme go? Why'd 'e warn me off?

  Not that Skif had any intention of being warned off. Oo's 'e think 'e is, anyroad? Oo's 'e think 'e was talkin' to? If there was one thing that Skif was certain of, it was his own expertise in his own neighborhood. However clever this man thought he was, he wasn't living right next door to his target, now, was he? He hadn't even known that Jass was the one who'd set that fire—Skif had seen a flicker of surprise when his own traitorous mouth had blurted that information out. He might think himself clever, but he wasn't as good as all that.