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.
