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."