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“Or he could just be a garden-variety murderer who enjoys watching people get chopped to bits by ancient death machines.”

“How is it that I work with dead bodies all day and I’m the optimist?”

That won him an exasperated smile. Then Galen’s green eyes narrowed suddenly. “But you knew. How did you know that this was where those men died?”

“Oh. That.” Piper looked away and rested the back of his head against the wall. “I suppose you deserve an explanation.” He toyed with the idea of lying, then discarded it. Withholding information could be dangerous. And they were in a death trap. And if the paladin gets antsy about me being a wonderworker…well, I’ll refer him to Bishop Beartongue, I suppose.

There was no way of telling how religious types would react to his admittedly minor magical talent. It wasn’t very impressive, but it was related to the dead, and people tended to get very anxious about anything that smacked of necromancy. It was hard enough just being a lich-doctor.

Some priests, like those of the Hanged Motherhood, would want him burned at the stake for witchcraft, although that wasn’t much distinction since they would have burned the world if they could have found sufficient kindling and a big enough stake. And then again, you had the White Rat’s people, whose only concern was how you could use such a talent to solve problems. Galen works for the Rat now, no matter who he once served. They’re not a burning order. Perhaps it will be all right.

“I’m a wonderworker,” he confessed. “Not much of one. If I touch a dead body, I can see what they saw as they died.”

He didn’t look at either one of his companions. The air nozzles had stopped hissing, and as he watched, the far door slid open.

“You can watch them die?” said Galen, his voice determinedly neutral.

“Not watch. I’m on the inside, seeing what they saw and feeling whatever emotions they felt. Only the last few seconds, usually.” He added, almost plaintively, “The Bishop knows.”

There was a long, long silence, and then Galen said, “That’s what you were doing on the body at the waterfront. When you took off your gloves.” Piper looked up, nodding. Sudden knowledge flared in the paladin’s eyes, and he said softly, “And the baby.” Piper had to look away.

Galen reached out and gripped his shoulder. Living flesh, no death on it. It warmed Piper more than he wanted to admit.

Earstripe flicked his ears sharply. “Can a bone-doctor eat meat?”

Piper shook his head. “Mostly, no. Eggs are fine, they’re almost never fertilized. The more rendered it is, the less likely it is to set me off. Grease doesn’t bother me. I can eat a cake baked with lard, or a jelly that started its life as hooves. And shellfish is fine. I don’t think clams and oysters are smart enough to know they’re dead.” He tapped one gloved finger against the other. “And tanned leather doesn’t remember anything either.”

“But if a bone-doctor bit into a steak…?”

“I am intimately acquainted with the last moments of a number of cows,” said Piper glumly. “Every time someone mixes up an order. There’s nothing to destroy a nice evening like suddenly being in a slaughterhouse and watching a hammer land between your eyes.” He paused then added, “Most of them don’t mind much, I have to say. They’re confused because they’re not in a place they recognize, but they aren’t scared of dying the way we are. But I know what’s happening.”

He’d also run into a couple of dried fish in the village—there had been almost no way to avoid them, they were on every possible surface—and had started coughing every time as he relived the dry-land drowning. He was pretty sure at least one of the fisherfolk thought he’d had consumption.

Galen and Earstripe sat in silence for a few minutes, and then finally Galen said, “Saint’s balls, what a horrible talent that must be.”

Piper snorted and finally dared to look over at the paladin again. There was no condemnation in those green eyes, which was a relief. “It’s not fantastic, no. But in my line of work, sometimes it’s useful.”

“A gnole thinks it is useful now, bone-doctor.”

Piper snorted. “I didn’t recognize the spot soon enough to get us out of here.”

“Not that.” Earstripe made a short chopping motion with one hand. “Smelling bodies, yeah? Something dead up ahead. You find a body, you touch a body, maybe you know what killed it. Maybe you know where to stand, yeah?”

Piper inhaled sharply. “He said it was a pig up ahead.”

“He also locked us in a death trap,” said Galen, “so I think his truthfulness may be in question.” He rose to his feet. “Come on. I’m sure the front door is locked, but we had better check anyway.”

Thirteen

The first door was indeed closed and locked. They crossed back through the rooms warily, waiting for the traps, but apparently Thomas had been telling the truth and they only worked when one entered through the front door. The short hallway at the end was dark and the door was sealed as tight as the doors of heaven. Tighter, probably. Galen knew at least a few people who were probably going to heaven, but he didn’t know anyone who was getting through that door.

Their host had left them a neat pile of waterskins, a box of matches, the other lantern, and a note that read: Remember, the righthand door. Stand on the triangles. Good luck! in such cheery handwriting that Galen felt like snarling.

“Damnation,” he muttered. He made several attempts to open the door, bashing it with his shoulder, digging the blade of his eating knife into the narrow seam. The door did not move a fraction and he broke the tip off his knife. He hadn’t really hoped for more, but it still felt like a blow to the gut.

“Well,” he said, eyeing the broken tip. “Now what do we do? Try to go through the maze, or try to break down the door?”

Piper shook his head. “I’ve tried to break down this kind of door before, and I had a crowbar and a hammer and anything else I could think of to try.”