Jebel stared at the trader. “Up where?” Bush pointed to the roof. “What for?”
Blair kicked him. “You’re not here to ask questions. Get up there quick, or we’ll leave you behind when we go—with the rest of the dead!”
Jebel judged the height of the roof, then jumped and grabbed for the edge. It was covered in snow, and his fingers slipped. He tried again, but the same thing happened. “I’ll need a leg up,” he said.
Bush locked his hands together and bent. Jebel put his right foot on the hands, bounced a couple of times, then jumped. Bush pushed and Jebel landed on his stomach. He started to slide off, but Blair grabbed his legs and thrust him forward. When Jebel was secure, he stood shakily and looked around. The graveyard was even creepier from up there.
“What now?” he asked, eager to finish whatever business they were here for.
“There should be a small window in the middle of the roof,” Bush said.
“I can see only snow,” Jebel said.
“Then edge forward on your hands and knees until you find it,” snapped Blair.
Jebel advanced slowly, scraping snow out of his way, tapping the roof. He soon found the window and cleared the snow from it. It was circular. The glass was stained with various colors, but he could see through it into the tomb. There were five large coffins within, made of stone and metal.
Jebel retreated to the edge of the roof and told Bush and Blair what he’d found. “Very good,” said Blair. “You’re not a complete idiot. Now for the next step…”
“Perhaps a little information about Um Saga burial practices would be useful at this point, Master Blair?” Bush suggested.
“Why not?” Blair grinned. “Many people think that the Um Saga are godless, as most of them don’t openly worship any higher force. That isn’t actually the case. They do have gods, and they believe in an afterlife, but they think that you have to buy a place by the side of your favored deity. The rich get to enjoy the trappings of the next world, while the poor fade away to nothing when they die.
“To ensure his place in the afterlife, an Um Saga must be buried in style, with rings, gems, gold-headed canes, bracelets, that sort of thing. The riches act as a heavenly bribe. That’s why there are only mausoleums here—the poor are simply dumped in an unmarked hole and left to rot. There’s no middle ground in Abu Saga.”
“It seems harsh to civilized folk like us,” Bush murmured, “but I suppose it acts as a powerful incentive to make the most of your opportunities in this life.”
“Violations of crypts are rare,” Blair went on. “The Um Saga are savages, but they have great respect for their wealthy dead—they look upon them the same way that your people look upon their famous warriors and executioners. To help protect the dead from foreign thieves, they never talk of the buried treasures with anyone who isn’t Um Saga. The gods are supposed to strike down dead those who make mention of their customs to an outsider.”
“But even the wrath of the gods can’t deter some loose tongues,” Bush chuckled. “We learned of these treasure troves fifteen years ago, from a not-so-dearly departed colleague. We’ve made a pilgrimage here most years since, always in winter, when people are less inclined to visit the dead—meaning they usually only discover evidence of our raid long after we’re gone.”
“Even if they discover it sooner,” Blair said, “they’re less likely to give chase when winds are blowing and snow is falling.”
The pair smiled at Jebel. He’d turned as cold inside as he was without. “No,” he croaked. “I won’t do it. I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” said Bush. “The windows are normally too small for Master Blair and me. We have to chip out part of the roof around them. You, however, should be able to fit through easily, being so thin.”
“No,” Jebel said again. “I won’t disturb the sleep of the dead. The gods would condemn me.”
“What do the gods care about Um Saga?” Blair snorted. “Come on, boy, it’s not like we’re asking you to desecrate the tombs of your own people.”
“Please,” begged Jebel. “I’ll do anything else. Or you can sell me. But don’t—”
“You wouldn’t bring ten silver swagah,” Bush hissed. “And we’ve no other use for a sniveling Um Aineh brat. So it’s this or we slice you up into pieces and leave your scraps for the vultures.”
“You wouldn’t be the first child we’ve killed,” said Blair coldly.
“But I won’t be able to get out,” Jebel cried. “I’ll be trapped.”
“Not with this,” Blair said, throwing something up onto the roof. It was a rope ladder attached to a steel bar with flat ends. “Feed that through the window. The bar remains on top. If by some chance you pull it down after yourself, don’t worry. Master Bush or I will climb up and help you out.”
Jebel could see that the pair were not to be swayed. Moaning softly, he crawled to the window, gazed into the gloom of the mausoleum, then started smashing the glass.
“Stop that!” Bush cried. “You might attract the townsfolk!”
Jebel paused and thought it over. This could be his chance to escape….
Blair seemed to read the boy’s mind, because even as Jebel was preparing to hammer at the window and scream, he said, “You’d be tied to a tree and left to die if the Um Saga caught you raiding one of their tombs.”
“They wouldn’t listen to your pleas of innocence,” Bush warned.
“And it wouldn’t be a quick, easy death by freezing,” added Blair. “They’d light a fire beside you and leave you for the insects that infest many of the trees in this region.”
“They chew through wood easily enough,” Bush said. “So as you can imagine, flesh doesn’t present much of a barrier to them.”
Jebel took a deep breath, settled his nerves, then said, “How am I supposed to break through the glass if I don’t smash it?”
“One end of the bar has been sharpened,” Blair said. “Slice through the glass around the rim and make a small hole, then start cutting around the edges. When you’re nearly through, grip the glass through the hole, so it doesn’t fall.”
“I don’t have any gloves,” said Jebel. “The glass will cut me.”
“You’re a big boy,” Bush laughed. “You’ll heal.”
“But blood will make the glass slippery. I might drop it.”
There was silence, then a single leather glove came flying up. Jebel pulled it on quickly. The tiny measure of relief that it brought from the cold was delicious. He clutched the hand to his chest, eyes closed, relishing this smallest of comforts. Then, exhaling shakily, he chipped away at a section of the glass and scraped the end of the bar along the rim, inserting his gloved hand in plenty of time to make sure the glass didn’t fall.
Once he’d removed the glass, Jebel lowered himself through the open window. When he was at chest level, he brought the bar in close, making sure both ends were planted firmly, then dropped, holding on to the bar. He came to his full reach, hung there a moment, then let go. He fell a few feet and landed neatly.
Jebel stood and let his eyes adjust. When he was able to see, he stared at the five coffins, waiting for the lids to lift and the dead to attack him, as they did in stories he had heard about graverobbers. When that didn’t happen, he crept to the nearest coffin and examined it. The lid wasn’t bolted down, and although it looked heavy, there was a layer of smooth metal between case and lid which made it easy to slide it forward and back.
Jebel took several deep breaths before he worked up the courage to touch the coffin. It was as cold as he’d expected. There were engravings on the lid, as well as an etching of the dead man’s face. Jebel ignored these and pushed the lid. It slid sideways smoothly. He let it get halfway across, then stopped and forced himself to look down at the face of the corpse.
“Gods protect me!” he shouted, falling away with shock. The man’s face was as freshly preserved as Jebel’s, and his eyes were open. He looked like he’d just awakened and was planning to eat J
ebel alive for disturbing him.
Jebel ran for the ladder, missed it, crashed into another coffin, and rebounded. He lay on the floor, panting, heart beating faster than a bird’s. His eyes shot to the open coffin, and he thought he saw a hand reaching up out of the darkness. He began to scream… then stopped when he realized that he was imagining the hand.
Jebel lay on the floor, gasping. Eventually he got to his feet and stumbled back to the open coffin. The corpse was still there, its face as fresh as before, its eyes open. But this time Jebel saw that there was no life in its eyes nor breath on its lips. The cold of the mausoleum must have kept the body fresh, or else the Um Saga used embalming fluid. Either way, this person could do him no harm, and although Jebel still felt queasy, he was no longer terrified.
Jebel ran his gaze over the corpse’s face, neck, and left arm. The man had been buried with a diamond-studded earring and two gold rings, one on his index finger, one on the middle finger. Jebel reached for the earring. Paused. Raised a hand and laid the back of his palm on the dead man’s cold forehead.
“I beg your forgiveness,” Jebel whispered. “I’m a slave to evil men and must do as they command or else join you in the land of the dead.”
Then he took off the earring and pried the rings from the corpse’s hand. That wasn’t so easy—they were jammed on tight and had half-fused with the flesh. Jebel had to use a piece of glass to cut the rings free, and when he slid them off, they had bits of the corpse’s flesh attached. Jebel didn’t clean off the flesh. He would leave that messy task to Bush and Blair.
Jebel went to the other side of the coffin and slid the lid back in the opposite direction so he could get to the dead man’s right side. There was one ring on this hand, and again Jebel had to cut it free. He put it with the others on a piece of cloth, then shut the lid and rested a moment.
Laying his head on the coffin, Jebel breathed raggedly in and out, eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably as he thought about what he’d done. How could he ever eat again, knowing his fingers had touched the cold, grey flesh of the dead? Tears dripped down his cheeks for the first time since his father had threatened to disown him all those years ago if he ever wept again, but Jebel didn’t care. This was a place and a time for tears.
Although Jebel didn’t want to continue, he knew he couldn’t pause here forever, mourning the loss of his humanity. He had a job to do, and grisly as it was, the sooner he completed it, the sooner he could get out. So, pushing himself away, he wiped tears from his cheeks and, with all the sluggishness of a bewitched corpse, moved on to the second coffin.
There was a moment, somewhere in the middle of that dead and chilling night, when Jebel thought of using a shard of glass to slice his throat open. But suicide was not the way of the Um Aineh. It was only acceptable as a last resort, to avoid great disgrace. But Jebel didn’t think the gods would look kindly on him if he took his own life. He wasn’t beyond hope. There would be chances in the future to fight for his freedom. Killing himself now would be an act of cowardice.
So he worked on, from one coffin to the next, until all five had been plundered. Replacing the last lid, he staggered to the rope ladder, hauled himself up, pulled the ladder after him, then rolled to the edge of the roof and dropped off. He thrust the bulging cloth at Bush and Blair, then strode away to draw clean breaths of fresh air.
Bush and Blair were impressed by Jebel’s haul. “You did a fine job,” Bush said.
“Most commendable,” cooed Blair. “Except next time work a little faster—you were in there much longer than necessary.”
Jebel almost retorted, but the traders were in a good mood and there was no sense angering them. Instead he sighed and said, “Do you want me to do another mausoleum?”
Bush looked at the moon, then shook his head. “It pays not to be greedy. Let’s settle for what we have and slip away safely.”
“I agree,” said Blair, pocketing the rings and jewels. “The secret to success is to stop when you’re ahead.” He clapped Jebel on the back. “You did well tonight, young Rum. We’ll reward you with a hot meal when we stop for dinner tomorrow.”
“And we’ll give you another glove,” Bush said. “And a cloak.”
Jebel wanted to refuse the gifts, to tell the pair to give them to the dead instead. But that would have been pointless. So he forced a smile, bowed, and managed a faint but almost genuine-sounding “thank you.”
“See?” Bush beamed. “Life with us isn’t so bad, is it?” Then he led the way out of the graveyard and locked the gate behind them. They marched at a fast pace and kept going through the remainder of the night, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the town by morning.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Weeks of graverobbing followed, trawling the lands of southern Abu Saga, hitting the more prosperous towns and raiding their mausoleums. They weren’t all as straightforward as the first. Many of the graveyards were guarded—although raids were rare, they did happen occasionally, so the wealthier Um Saga preferred to put patrols in place where possible.
If Bush and Blair had been working by themselves, they would have avoided the guarded graveyards, valuing their necks over profits. But they were not overly concerned about Jebel, so they happily sent him in by himself, sneaking him past those on watch, leaving him to plunder on his own.
Jebel hated those raids the most, having to slip past the guards and work silently, terrified in case he was discovered. The first time he was sent in solo, he tried to fake an unsuccessful robbery. He hid in the shadows of a mausoleum for a few hours, then climbed out, claiming that the tombs had already been robbed. But Bush and Blair saw through the lie. While Bush held his mouth shut, Blair cut a small slice off the tips of both his index fingers. They vowed to chop off whole fingers the next time he lied to them, then sent him back in.
Occasionally a graveyard was too well guarded, and they had to skip it, but that was rare. Bush and Blair sent Jebel in except when the odds were overwhelmingly stacked against him. Despite their protestations that he was an important member of the team, Jebel knew he was expendable. He didn’t think they planned to keep him beyond winter. If he wasn’t caught robbing a tomb and killed before they headed south for the spring, he was sure they’d sell him to slavers or slaughter him in his sleep.
The bogus Masters let Jebel wear gloves and a cloak now, and gave him a blanket when he slept. And they fed him more but not too much—he was more useful to them thin than fat, and even though he told them he had always been thin, no matter how much he ate, they didn’t want to take any chances. Jebel wasn’t starving any longer, but he was never far from hunger’s door.
Jebel knew that the clothes and food were given in order to bend him to Bush and Blair’s will. They thought they’d broken his spirit and were using the gifts to make him feel indebted to them. The tyrants were cunning but arrogant. It never crossed their minds that Jebel might be acting, pretending to be more disheartened than he was, letting them think he was beaten when in fact he was constantly plotting to escape.
His captors no longer bound his hands except at night. When they were walking, Jebel deliberately fell behind, complaining of weariness. Bush and Blair had lapsed into the habit of letting him trail after them, and every day he dropped a little farther back, creating the space that he would need when the time was right to run.
But would that time ever come? He was always reeled in when they drew near a town or passed by a river where there might be boats. Where could he run to here in the wilderness? Where could he hide? Bush and Blair would follow his footprints in the snow, track him like hounds, and punish him cruelly.
He thought a lot about Tel Hesani. Was the slave working down a mine, never to see sunlight again? At first Jebel blamed the Um Kheshabah and held to the belief that his guardian should have seen this coming. But as the days turned to weeks, he remembered that Tel Hesani had done his best. He had been suspicious of the traders in Shihat and warned Jebel not to trust them, but Jebe
l had ignored him. There was no point blaming the slave. Jebel decided that if he was dead when the Wadi witch tried to contact his spirit in the summer, he would demand freedom for Tel Hesani’s wife and children.
They didn’t raid every night. Bush and Blair worked cautiously, never hitting a town where people might have been forewarned. After looting a graveyard, they would walk for at least two or three days, resting only to eat and sleep. When they had outpaced word of their vile misdeeds, they struck again.
Every couple of weeks they stopped at a town to bathe, relax, and stock up on supplies. Fellow travelers were rare in this part of Abu Saga, but they ran into some occasionally, usually traders on their way to market with rabbit or fox pelts. Bush and Blair always greeted the traders warmly. They shared their food and drink, traded generously—even when they had no need of the goods—and passed on tips about nearby towns, urging them not to try such and such a spot, or to definitely head for such and such a place.
Jebel was confused by this until he realized that the towns they criticized were those whose graveyards they had robbed. Bush and Blair believed in paying attention to even the smallest of details, which made a gloomy Jebel suspect that his forthcoming attempt to escape would be far from a roaring success.
From a purely professional point of view, Jebel had become an accomplished graverobber. He could be in and out of a mausoleum in minutes. He had learned to tell those worth robbing from those not worth bothering with, how to avoid guards and slip by them like a ghost, the difference between a real diamond and a fake. If he had been interested in pursuing this as a career, he couldn’t have wished for a finer education.
But one thing that hadn’t changed was his sense of shame. He despised himself for what he had to do. He still put a hand to the forehead of all those he robbed, begging their forgiveness. He had taught himself to smile around Bush and Blair and laughed at the jokes they made about the dead. He acted as if it was no different from common burglary. But he knew this fell far outside the bounds of all that was decent. This was the work of demons.