Buried Beneath

(961 words)

The difference between mausoleums and crypts, to Gimial Finkel, at least, was the ease of access.

Mausoleums were too well guarded, their grandeur serving as such a reminder. Not only were they usually sealed by a solid slab of marble, but often not they came attached with an afterhours caretaker, of sorts. A living to guard the deceased.

Of course, to avoid the latter of these problems, you could attempt a break-in during daylight, when a flickering flame would not be necessary. Yet then the likelihood of being discovered increased tenfold. People, it seemed to Gimial, had a bad habit of walking in on his nefarious deeds.

Crypts, providing you can find a way in, were much less well guarded.

Not only that, but their doorway deterrent rarely involved more than a heavy padlock and a thickset door.

Throughout the years of a self-classified career, Gimial had learned many things. One such nugget of wisdom being: the older the crypt, the easier the break in.

Craos was a complete ramshackle of wealth. The clear divides in district at least lent benefit to determining where the right target could be located. It was a balancing act, one which Gimial liked to think he had perfected.

Central held the most wealth and therefore housed the most worth in terms of burial treasures. With the wealth, however, came the greatest security. Only when he deemed the prize sizeable enough to outweigh the risk did he target the various crypts dotted around.

Plag held the least. You could see why. A district known for pestilence and filth was always going to come with death aplenty. Luck was with those that earned even a shallow grave. The majority were instead burned in an attempt to rid any lingering disease. Naturally, Gimial avoided ever venturing there.

North and South were almost on par with one another, though Gimial tended to lean towards theft in South, most notably because he himself lived in North. It was not good practice to shit where you ate.

There were at least four or five crypts scattered across the district, each with a fair modicum of wealth. It was finding the right one, the right family with a long enough lineage that the crypt became almost a shrine.

Stalking, was an important part of graverobbing.

Brute force was an option, but learning who had the key to the crypt made the whole process less taxing, not to mention less dangerous.

Take the Ryssin family, for instance. A large one, scattered all of Craos, with the main family located rather conveniently – for him, at least – in South.

Their history was nearly as old as Craos, six generations of Ryssin living here. Maybe not thriving – an inability to succeed in joining the ranks of the elite in Central evidence of this – but existing in a comfortable way, with money enough to maintain a family crypt.

It was not the only job Gimial had his eye on, but it was his main target.

Tybin Ryssin, the middle son of the family, had the key. He knew the family’s calendar, knew the cycles in which they moved.

The best time to strike? After a visit to the crypt had been made.

Gimial spared himself a rare moment of compassion as he watched them all file into the crypt. Tybin’s youngest brother had died only two years ago. Two years ago today. His tiny body lay buried beneath, a life ended before its time.

That was a problem with Craos: death, in all shapes and forms, lurked round every corner.

The mother cried, as she had done last year. The father, stoic and unreadable, remained as stoic and unreadable as ever.

Gimial could’ve taken the key the year before, knew it wouldn’t have been difficult. But the grief was too close.

Don’t misunderstand, Finkel has no issue with upsetting remaining family members. He robs graves, after all. It would be the wrong line of work if he found guilt amongst the grief.

No, by grief too close, it is meant that the crypt is not safe enough for a break-in. The likelihood of a surprise visit is too high.

Lo and behold, Gimial had been right. A few days after the first anniversary, the boy’s father had returned, alone and unbidden.

In a rare expression of emotion, Gimial had watched the stoic father break down. Tears and sobs had wracked the still night air. Then he had left, returning to the gruff façade.

A year later, Gimial made sure to wait an extra few days, lest the same situation occur. When it did not, he made his move.

It was a simple case of misdirection. A double pickpocket. One obvious, the other subtle.

The key and money pouch hung at Tybin’s waist. Bumping into the boy, Gimial lifted both, making sure that Tybin noticed the sudden lack of a coinpurse.

Cries of outrage directed our thief’s way, chase given. Swiftly forgone as Gimial drops the recently lifted coin for Tybin to retrieve. It would be a while before he noticed the key was missing. With luck, suspicion would glide past Gimial, in favour of self-doubt and potential misplacement.

He waited until nightfall, as was custom in his profession. Then he struck.

As planned, it went smoothly. An easy break-in, one not weighed down by the dangers of suspect.

The key slid into the padlock with no resistance, recently used and tested. The chain rattled louder than Gimial would’ve liked, but that was an unfortunate necessity. It could not come loose without any movement.

Then he was in, looping the chain back through the door to give the appearance of not being disturbed. He turned to the crypt at large.

Untold rich awaited those daring enough to plunder…