57

The woman who seems to be chief scavenger of the pack slows from running to stalking speed. A blade appears from her dark robes, glinting in the moonlight, and a similar one appears in the hands of the fellow scoundrel at her heels.

"If you're going to steal, steal from the tombs," you say, shaking your head in exasperation as your wit sets into a gallop.

The lead graverobber slows. "What?" she hisses.

You point at the nearest mausoleum and tick off the arguments on your fingers. "A fancier burial means greater finery to loot; one mausoleum, once breached, can house many well-dressed corpses; but most notably, why risk contracting disease when 'tis not necessary?"

"What are you on about?" she snarls at you. "What disease?"

You note with satisfaction that they've stopped in their tracks.

Onward