Who is that?” Gerd asked. “A priest?”
Marius frowned. “Could be. The rites should have been finished days ago, but you never know. Maybe they keep one going for the tourists, sort of adding to the value of the experience or something. Still,” he craned his neck, staring past the shoulders of those in front of him. “I can’t see anybody.” They stepped closer. They were only ten or twenty minutes, fifty steps or so, from standing directly in front of the King. “Maybe he’s kneeling at the back corner of the display or something.”
Two guards stood to either side of the bier, resplendent in golden mail. One of them glanced at the talkative couple and frowned. Marius took note, and bent his head.
“Better be quiet,” he whispered. “Show respect and all that.”
Gerd nodded, and they concentrated on staring at the display before them. Apart from the two guards, the only adornments to the chamber were two large torches in golden braziers at either side of the bier. Marius was not surprised. Compared to the walls around him, any great show would seem gaudy and kitsch. Better to keep things simple, and let the cathedral itself do the work of inspiring the necessary awe.
The King himself had been laid out in his coronation robes, with his ceremonial crown perched upon his head.
“Helps to hide the wounds,” Marius observed, indicating the gold and velvet cap. Gerd nodded, and nodded towards the voluminous silk gown. “Can’t see the killing stroke.” They stepped forward. “How are we going to do this?”
Marius let his gaze drift to the guards and beyond them towards the exit at the opposite side of the chamber. The hall was well-lit, the soldiers attentive. Behind them stood the twinned entrances to the Hall of Kings, where King Tanspar’s predecessors lay within their marble crypts. Long velvet ropes blocked the entrances. The only other possible escape route lay back along the line of supplicants, or across another fifty feet of open floor to the far exit. Three dozen or more grieving subjects lay between them and either door. Marius eyed the guards – tall, athletic, the swords at their hips appearing superbly functional despite the gaudiness of their ceremonial costumes – then looked back to the King in his heavy, swirling robes, hemmed tightly into his resting place by cushions, and now that he paid attention, wires surreptitiously looped around ankles and wrists and tucked down behind the fabric. He bit his lip.
“Ah, hell.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “We can’t.”
“But…”
“We can’t.” He waved a finger at the various facets of the diorama. “It’s impossible. We can’t even get close enough to touch him, never mind get him out. And even if we could, even if we could distract the guards, and untie him, and get him down, all without being noticed, what do you think this lot would do to us, hey?” He nodded towards those ahead of them in the line. As they passed his resting place, the King’s subjects gave in to grief. There was crying, and wailing, and oaths of revenge. Gerd stared.
“They’d tear us apart.”
“At the least.”
They listened to the emotion running through the room. Marius frowned.
“Can you hear that?”
Underneath the expectant murmurs behind them, underneath the echoing sounds of grief ahead, a voice. Singular, uncertain, verging upon panic.
“Hello?” it said. “Please, hello? Is there anybody there? Hello? Help? Help. Please, I can’t see. Help. I don’t know what’s happening. I can’t move. Can anybody hear me?”
“I hear it,” Gerd whispered. “But where? It sounds like… I can’t pinpoint it.”
“I know that voice.” Marius replied. “It’s… it sounds like it’s coming from…”
They stepped forward, almost directly in front of the King.
“Please?” said the voice. “Please, can anyone hear me?”
As one, they turned towards the dead man.
“Oh, God,” Gerd whispered.
Marius stared at the immobile figure. “They’ve embalmed him,” he said.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Embalmed… you mean…?”
Marius nodded. “I’ve seen them do this. They soak him in a solution, then they open him up… stuff him with… oh God. He’s still in there?”
“Hello? Can anyone hear me? I demand… I need to know what’s going on.”
“Should we… can we…?”
“I don’t know.” Marius stared helplessly at the unmoving King, while the voice questioned and pleaded inside their heads. “I just… I don’t know.”
“Hey!”
They jumped at the sound of the guard’s voice. The guard waved a hand at the line behind them.
“Move along please, citizens. Let someone else pay their respects.”
“But…” Gerd took a step towards Tanspar. Marius grabbed his arm.
“Yes, sir. Of course. Thank you.” He moved away, dragging his protesting companion with him. The guard turned his attention back to the line, and Marius quickly dragged him to the shadows at the entrance to the Hall of Kings.
“What are you doing?” Gerd tore his arm free of Marius’ grip. “We’ve got to help him.”
“How?” Marius swung him around to stare back at the snaking line and the pool of light in which the King rested. “Tell me, go on.”
“I don’t know. You’re the… the… thief!”
“Shhh.” Marius gave him a gentle shake, just enough to rattle his teeth. “Keep it down, for Gods’ sake. Look.” He let go, sank back against a pole and slid down until sitting. “Let’s say we do it, okay? We somehow manage to distract the guards, liberate our man, and evade every loyal mourner between here and the City walls. What then?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Look at him.” Marius waved a hand at the tableau. “I mean, really look. And think. He’s as stiff as a board. He can’t see, or hear. What are we going to do, lean him against a wall and tell everyone that begging for help is a sign from God? How long do you think that’ll satisfy them?” He shook his head. “That’s after we get him all the way through the city, out the north wall to the burial fields, with every single soldier and citizen of the entire city baying after us. Too hard. It’s too hard. There are just too many wrong elements.”
Gerd sat down, eyes fixed on the passing mourners. “What then? I mean, this was the plan, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, yeah. This was the plan.” Marius waved a hand into the crypt behind them. “We may as well try to steal one of this lot with the chances we’ve got.”
Gerd stared into the darkness of the hall for long minutes. Then, slowly, he squinted in thought.
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why not?” He slid over, and kneeled in front of Marius. “Look.” He pointed back into the darkness. “It’s dark, it’s deserted. The guards aren’t there like they normally would be. Everyone’s paying attention to the show out front. We could sneak in, open up one of the display cases and carry one of the old kings out through a back entrance before anyone notices.”
Marius stared at his young accomplice. “You’ve not actually visited the Hall of Kings before, have you?” he said at last.
“Well, no. Not as such.”
“No.” Marius leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. “Because if you had, you’d know that the dearly departed monarchs are ‘displayed’ inside stone vaults, the lids of which are carved from single blocks of granite or alabaster, and which probably weigh in the vicinity of several tonnes. And the only side entrance is the one that leads to the rather smaller and less enjoyable Hall of Queens, where Scorby’s proud centuries-long tradition of treating your wife like a second class citizen can be seen at its most emphatic.” He sighed. “Nice try, though.”
Gerd sat back. “You’re right. We should probably just wait for the dead to drag us back below ground so we can admit failure.” He matched Marius’ sigh with one of his own. “Wonder what they’ll do to you?”