The Bone House by Stephen R. Lawhead

in the doorway of the church. The fellow proceeded to light the torches in the sconces either side of the door. He turned, saw the strangers, and called to them in a language Douglas assumed was some local dialect. He had his reply ready. “Pax vobiscum,” he said, folding his hands before him and offering a small bow from the waist. Summoning his practised Latin, he said, “May grace attend you this night, brother.”
    The monk responded likewise. “Peace, brothers.” He made to retreat into the church once more. “May God be good to you.”
    “A moment, brother,” called Douglas, striding forward. “We have just arrived in this place and have need of information.”
    The monk turned back and waited for them to come nearer. “Have you travelled far?” he said, his Latin tinged by his broad, oddly flattened accent.
    “Far enough,” replied Douglas. “I am charged with a duty to find one known as Dr. Mirabilis—a fellow priest, I have it, whose writings have reached us in Eire.”
    The monk rolled his eyes. “You and all the rest of the world!”
    “Am I right in thinking that he reside hereabouts?”
    “He does,” replied the monk without enthusiasm. “He has rooms in one of the university inns—I cannot say which one.” He turned and started into the church.
    “Perhaps you can tell me how best to find him?” Douglas called after him; he put on an expectant expression in the hope of coaxing more information from the reluctant fellow.
    “I must beg your pardon, brother, but no,” replied the monk over his shoulder. “However, that is no hardship, for unless you are supremely blessed, you cannot safely avoid him.”

CHAPTER 9

In Which Full Disclosure Takes a Drubbing
    T he rumbling growl of the young cave cat announced the arrival of the new day, waking the sleepers. The Burley Men roused themselves and set about their allotted daily chores: one to feed Baby, one to make breakfast, one to see to the prisoners. Dex had drawn that last straw. So, slipping his feet into sandals and pulling on his desert kaftan, he shuffled out of the tent. The sun was up, though still so low that the early-morning light did little to penetrate the shadows of the wadi. He drew a deep breath of clean morning air and, yawning, started for the tomb entrance.
    Since Burleigh had ordered that no more food or water was to be given to the captives until they agreed to talk, he did not bother filling the water can or food pan. Nor did he bother firing up the generator for the lights. What he needed to learn could be discovered in the semidarkness of High Priest Anen’s tomb.
    Pressing a hand to the stairwell stone, he descended the narrow steps into the tomb’s vestibule, paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust, then proceeded into the first chamber. He crossed the empty room to the door of the smaller second room, wherein lay the remains of the great granite sarcophagus that had once contained the coffin of the high priest. This room was secured by an iron grate. All was quiet in the darkened chamber.
    He approached. No one stirred at his arrival.
    Dex stood listening for a moment, but heard nothing—neither the brush and rustle of men moving about, nor even the intake and exhalation of sleeping men breathing. The tomb was silent.
    “Wakey! Wakey!” he called, his voice loud in the emptiness. “You’re wasting the best of the day!” He smiled at his little jest.
    There was no response.
    “Are you dead in there?” he called and considered that this was only too likely to be the case, and that the captives had succumbed in the night, following Cosimo and Sir Henry—two right royal pains in the arse if ever there were—into the grave.
    Splendid, now he would have to go and fire up the generator, turn on the lights, and then get the key and come back and deal with the bodies. Bloody bother , muttered Dex inwardly. But before he went to all that trouble, he decided to make sure the two remaining captives were not