Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1) by Patrick LeClerc

going to set off the trap?”
    She shook her head. “Our late friend is.”
    Conn stood watch as Trilisean first ransacked the dead man's pockets, producing a few silver marks and yet another copy of the map. She swore under her breath, wondering again how many were out there. The man's tools were inferior to hers, and she ignored the shortsword at his belt.
    Trilisean then examined the door with her lantern and lens, taking care not to touch handle or fastenings. She found nothing untoward, not that she expected to, having already detected one trap, but a girl could never be too careful.
    She took a length of string from her kit, tied one end to a projecting detail in the relief on the door, then laid it out to reach the keyhole and tied the dead man's lockpick at that point. She then took a coil of fine wire and tied it from the suspended lockpick to the corpse's hand.
    “The trap won't discharge into thin air,” she explained to Conn. “A living thing needs to be touching the lockpick for it to go off.”
    “He's not exactly a living thing anymore.”
    She shrugged. “He's still a man, still made out of flesh. It'll work. He'll just get a posthumous lesson in trap disarming.”
    “And if there were no obliging corpse laying about?”
    “There are ways around that. A good sized bowl of salt water will work if you find yourself short on corpses.” As she spoke she lined the lockpick up with the keyhole, sure to keep it well clear of the hole while she worked.
    “Salt water?” he wondered. “Why would that work?”
    She shrugged again. “Sweat is salty. So are tears. And blood. Maybe that's what draws the magic. Now hush for a moment.” She knelt behind the suspended lockpick, drew it back, then let it swing forward on its string.
    As it entered the keyhole, there was a spark and the corpse twitched.
    Trilisean quickly passed her hand near the body, then the wire, then the lockpick. When nothing happened, she slid her own picks in and began deftly working them in the keyhole, feeling for the tumblers. Conn, remembering she was unsure how long until the trap rearmed, made a point not to distract her.
    After a brief eternity, she felt the bolt slide away and let out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. She flashed a sign to Conn, got to her feet, and thrust open the door.
    Conn stepped swiftly through, moving to the left, back to the wall, spear before him. Trilisean darted through to the right.
    They found themselves in a wide passageway lined with statues.
    The hallway was maybe fifty feet long and ten wide, of smooth, polished stone, ending at another massive stone door. Pedestals lined each wall. Atop each was a statue of a monster, or perhaps a god, or a man in an elaborate mask. The form was manlike, but the head of each was huge and fierce and reptilian. Some of the figures wore elaborate robes, some ornate armor, some were garbed only in shells and feathers. Many had details picked out in gems or precious metal.
    Trilisean scanned the hallway, then approached the nearest statue. This one was carved clad in a cape and headdress of feathers, with a necklace of shells and bones. In its clawed right hand it held a stone dagger aloft, in its left a bowl. There was little ornamentation, save for smooth amber stones fitted for eyes.
    She compared this to the others. They were clearly sculpted by different artists, the style varied greatly from one to another, and the ones at the nearer end of the passage seemed both cruder and more worn than those further on. As they moved down the corridor, the carving became cleaner and more detailed, the garb more elaborate, and more and costlier accents appeared.
    “It looks like the busts of ancestors in some Baron's great hall,” she murmured.
    Conn agreed. A series of similar figures carved over generations. But generations of what? Were these depictions of patron deities, or, he shuddered to think, of the inhabitants of this temple themselves?
    They crept down