[u]Part I:
A Traveller From An Antique Land
[u]
Chapter I
In Which A Letter Is Received And A Plant Is Rescued
I am entirely uncertain as to how one should characterize this sort of occurrence. I would not presume to draw far-reaching conclusions, even now, holding all the pieces in my hands and looking back post-factum. I am, furthermore, disinclined to make accusations that cannot stand the test of verifiability, or would be otherwise fallacious. It is always my inclination, I believe, to see my own responsibility in the manner in which events evolve, and I do not see why, for this instance, I should change from my habitual view. So, let it be thus. And let me, therefore, begin at the beginning. At least as I am the one telling this part of the tale let it begin at my beginning.
Everything, the good as well as the bad, happened because I absolutely hate being sidelined.
It is a matter of human nature. No one enjoys being left behind, having to sit at the window, spin wool and sigh at the sunset. As it happens, the entire chain of events might have occurred quite differently I dare hope, even more badly than it did if some particular details of my everyday life at the time were just slightly different. To wit, everything would have been different had my husband, Alexander, stayed at home, and had my friend, Lorenzo, bothered to make his note to me a single well-placed phone call.
So life will stand and fall; on the whim of a single phone call.
As it happens, my husband was not home. He was gallivanting about, somewhere in the wild, wild west, pretending to be a medical doctor and displaying feats of gunslinging marksmanship to the unsuspecting bystanders. While he was, I am given to understand, much enjoying himself in this manner, I was stuck at home, learning to move about without my umbrella. That had served me as a cane and crutch for several months, but it was edging towards a rather blazing, and distinctly un-rainy, California summer: it was time for said umbrella to find its rightful place in the closet.
I gained that umbrella, and the need for it, in a rather foolish accident which, conveniently, decimated my powers altogether, sending me and mine into a blissful, comfortable, boring retirement.
Until that letter.
The day was one of these very bright, mild ones that neither surprise you with wet showers, nor oppress you with their intolerable, muggy heat. It was a day meant for optimism, and I was quite optimistic. I had been poking about in the pitiful semblance of a garden our house possessed, and was imagining myself quite the green thumb when something in my back decided to demolish my smugness altogether, and popped with a loud snap.
Creaking like an old case of stairs, I unfolded slowly to what nature deemed to be my proper height all meter sixty of it, barely enough to reach peoples belt buckle and progressed slowly toward the house. I was mentally preparing myself to many an hour of sulking, boredom, and waiting as I whittled away till Sasha could come pull down things from high shelves for me.
Then I remembered that Lorenzos library had several fascinating items upon which I wished to put my hands for quite some time. The items in question were usually being read by him, however, so I spent the last several months quietly pining away, waiting my proper turn. Now, I decided, would be a proper turn. One could hardly deny the pleasure to the sick, after all. I made my way with the speed and grace of an overfed turtle, and, in a fairly short amount of time, was knocking on Lorenzos door. I was to be sadly disappointed, however, because there was no answer.
I knocked a few more times, for the effect, and then noticed the sheaf of thick glossy paper tucked into the crack of the door.
Obviously, Lorenzo was not home. Just as obviously, he has left me, in his customary, Victorian way, a missive (calling that three-page monstrosity by the inoffensive, ubiquitous term note was, really, quite beyond me) written in his neat handwriting. In English, out of sheer habit.
That, by the way, is my name. At least its second half. The number of times I had heard the first half of my name, Sofia, anywhere in Lorenzos proximity can be conveniently counted upon the fingers of one hand while holding a teacup.
And so on and so forth things in this vein, until the flowery but obligatory signature.
A house key on a chain was neatly folded into the envelope.
Well, after a letter like that, what woman with anything resembling sentiment could refuse to water her friends plants? Or walk his dog? Or shine his shoes? Lorenzo did not have a dog, and his shoes were thankfully out of reach, but the yours with much gratitude made sufficient impression on me. I admit, I have a weakness to a specific type of man; charming, intelligent, articulate and old-fashioned. I married one very much in this vein. Lorenzo might not have been old-fashioned when he was young sometime in the tail end of the 19th century but he certainly occupies that niche now. And he can do charming and urbane well enough to convert rocks. That makes it occasionally difficult to remember that the man is frighteningly intelligent considerably smarter than yours truly almost too competent to be real, and sufficiently devious to tutor Machiavelli.
He could use a few reminders on the subject of phone calls, however.
I sighed. It was the 17th, and so Lorenzo must have departed a day ago. The plants, clearly, were in urgent need of watering and several other items on the list beeped red lights of due dates at me. I repossessed the key, and opened the door.
I knew the place quite well been there countless times so I squinted into the darkness and was off into the salon without bothering with the first light switch on my way. That, patently, was a mistake, as my foot an unreliable appendage at best, these days tangled itself in something on the floor, and sent me sprawling almost onto my nose. Fighting the indignity of a squeal, I grabbed at the offending obstacle, and encountered the contours of a book.
Grumbling softly, I picked myself and the offending printed item up, and slowly made my way to the next light switch down the line. I threw it on, and tried to find the plants under the layers of papers, dust and miscellanea.
Lorenzo, to a large extend like my dear husband, seems to be one of these fastidious people to whom, by virtue of their great reluctance to throw anything away, disorder clings, no matter what they do. Too, they tend to prioritize cleaning their apartments, rooms or drawers quite low on their list wedged between washing the dishes and purchasing useless household items like spoons, forks and light bulbs and so Lorenzo easily could have left in the small window of time between clutter and must put it all in place.
It was only, I am sure, by virtue of his phenomenal memory, that he was able to find the documents for his trip. His desk was a marvel of piling and an eccentric sort of classification known to people like me as piling in smaller heaps. Cleaning the place wasnt on my list, but I had a hard time refusing to indulge my natural impulses and not putting things in their proper places. Besides, if Lorenzo wanted me to handle some documentation for him which he did I had to somehow fight my way through his habitual manner of putting things in order. I thoughtfully picked up a tie from the back of a chair, and went to get a dust mop.
Lorenzos table did not actually require as much sorting as Id feared. Though I knew that even that unchallenging task was Sisyphean labour, as the entirety of it would find its way to the desktop again. I sorted and sifted and, in the end, was left with nothing more than a few scattered papers. Some of them, as natural for a person of my unproportional and insatiable curiousity, drew my eye. Dont get the wrong impression; far be it from me to habitually read other peoples mail. Curiousity is well and good, but courtesy has much greater virtues to recommend itself, and I tend to hold by it. It was not so much that I read the letters as that I held to them for a few moments, unsure as to which of the neat organized stacks of documents each belonged to. It was, therefore, only natural that I should skim to determine their placement.
Lorenzo did keep quite a correspondence.
It was astonishing how many people one could entice to respond if one produced sufficiently nice paper, and elaborate handwriting. Most of the responses were by hand, no less. Only a smattering were typed official letters. One bore the stamps of the Louvre, another was from a Mr. Edgecombe in the British Museum, a third was posted from Cairo. It was not that I had a lack of interesting correspondence; I regularly tossed emails back and forth with several linguists and cognitive psychologists but, for one, most of my correspondence was done by email these days, and, for another, as a procurer of antiquities Lorenzo seemed to keep in touch with every sizeable museum on the planet.
Eventually, I found the placement of the letters on the desktop, as it happens smiled to myself, and went to water the drooping plants.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter II
In Which The Boredom Of Retirement Is Described, And Later Relieved
The problem with life in retirement, for someone like me, is that it is boring.
I whiled the rest of the day away by doing very little. I went to the park, sitting on a bench with my head tilted back and eyes closed, pretending occasionally I was there to supervise one of the children. Which child varied depending on the amount of attention parents were paying their offspring. I amused myself for a while keeping eye contact with a specific child, nodding at other women, and shifting instantly to a different toddler if the current subjects parent swam into view.
Having returned home, I settled down on the couch to finally sink my teeth into the books I had, now that Lorenzo was not home, gratefully let myself at. After some time spent reading, however, my concentration wandered, fidgeting in disquiet between the plains of the Midwestern prairies and the lights and fountains of Paris. I was, quite frankly, rather envious; Sasha had painted a picture which, if not precisely cinematic, was nonetheless engaging he was occupied, constantly on his toes, experiencing adrenaline rushes and the occasional thrill of danger. Lorenzo was enjoying Europe which I loved hunting down mysterious antiquities in museums.
I was stuck in California, drinking tea and reading a book.
I pattered around the house, feeling old. Finally, unable to resist the temptation any longer, I settled at my computer, and accessed the news, sifted through several databases which I and Alexander still keep an eye on officially or otherwise.
It is not that we spy, precisely, but the agencies which weve had occasion to cooperate with before tend to roam through the net regularly, flagging down items of interest. These items, ubiquitous and often quite unassuming, often failed to make headlines. Nonetheless, their importance was not diminished by the fact that reporters, as a rule, had a spectacular tendency to fail to recognize important events even if these hit them in the face with a baseball bat, so agencies found it useful to make their own report of the world.
I had long since been spoiled by the easy and plentiful availability of these choicest of morsels, and reading the news otherwise, for me, because a torture I was no longer willing to subject myself to. I had sacrificed half a brain and half a life for the Cause whatever that may be I refused to sacrifice an evening.
I leafed through the databases, carefully keeping an eye on the occasional outside interference. The world, surprisingly enough, was sufficiently quiet to satisfy even such a raging paranoid as myself. Paragon, quite obviously,, was an exception to the rule, but that was a city where plots for world domination rose and crumbled in the blink of an eye, and no sensible person could, or would wish, to keep track of them.
A single article, however, caught my eye. It was a clip from an online edition of the Guardian, which read as follows:
[ QUOTE ]
Brutal Paris Murder
Louvre curator body found this morning. Occult activity suspected.
Dr. Claude Benveniste, a known scholar of antiquities, was found this morning dead in his office. He had been missing from his home the previous night, and his wife filed a missing person report with the police. This morning, during a routine inspection, his office door was opened, and the missing doctor found. A team of medics recorded the death. The body was brutally mutilated, the police say, and occult activities related to the Circle of Thorns were being considered as a possible line of investigation.
Dr. Benveniste was head of Near Eastern Antiquities for the last eight years, and was known among the staff as a quiet, pleasant man whose only interest was research. According to his employer, Dr. Gerard Beauly, he was never known to be involved with any occult activities.
[/ QUOTE ]
I finished reading the article, discovering to my rather disembodied astonishment that my fingertips, of their own accord, were drumming upon the keyboard shelf restlessly. That feat of coordination, impossible for me a mere few weeks ago, should have, all in and of itself, sent me dancing with joy to renew my defunct EMT license the inability to perform delicate field operations and treatments was among the most depressing to me but I had been too concentrated upon something else.
The name was familiar. The title was familiar also. Together with the place of employment the Louvre, in, as it happens, Paris faint bells of alarm were rapidly going off in my head. I had not assumed that Lorenzo would have been caught in the turmoil after the death, or was incapable of coping with the loss of a colleague, but
I frowned, rummaging rapidly through the events of the day.
Then I closed the database entries, and half ran out, grabbing the key to Lorenzos door as I went.
By the time I had arrived, slightly out of breath from exertion, to his desk, the alarm bells in my head had reached illegal decibels, and hovered thereabouts, clanging at my consciousness methodically, permitting me little concentration. I leafed through the letters on Lorenzos table with shaking hands, until, finally, the light of the small desk lamp revealed the letter bearing the ornate letterhead of the Louvre.
It was only one page, with rather short text. It was written in blocky, typed letters, using an old-fashioned typewriter, and dated from the beginning of the month. It read as follows.
[ QUOTE ]
De: Departement des Antiques Orientales, Musee du Louvre,
A: Monsieur L. Mondavi.
Sujet: En reponse a votre enquete
[/ QUOTE ]
Or, if you really want to know what it said:
[ QUOTE ]
In response to your inquiry
Dear Sir,
I regret to inform you that the artifacts upon which you have inquired are not, presently, on display. Nor will they be available for examination by private parties in the near future. They have been removed for restoration and, in certain cases, detailed study.
Replicas of these artifacts, as well as transcriptions and photographs, can be found in the appropriate internet archives, as well as in the National Library of France, in Paris.
It is my hope that this response has assisted you in your studies, and I apologize for the inconvenience in hope that you will understand the necessity of it.
Sincerely,
Dr. Claude Benveniste
Curator,
Department of Oriental Antiques
[/ QUOTE ]
I hissed under my breath.
The learned doctor Benveniste. The late learned doctor Benveniste. Curator of Near Eastern Antiquities, man with no connection to the occult, brutally mutilated and dead these past twenty four hours. A correspondent of Lorenzos at least insofar as to obviously refuse a request. Dead within a few hours of Lorenzos arrival in Paris. I suppressed the urge to swear under my breath, and tried to think the situation through.
Quite obviously, correlation did not mean causation; the entire thing could be a dreadful coincidence, a misfortune of the utmost caliber, yet, in the end, merely that. The curator of ancient artifacts, in our world, was not a safe position to be appointed to. Certainly the police could be correct, and the Circle of Thorns among numerous others had ample reasons to commit crimes within that realm. Who knew, after all, which of these artifacts were significant, and in what manner? The Circle, as I had ample reason to know, would kill, main or possess over the smallest of trifles, and presumably this Benveniste could no more withstand the attack of a behemoth demon than he could handle a mugging and arson.
I sat at the desk for a while, head between my hands, staring at the paper with unfocused eyes. Was the coincidence not too convenient? Lorenzo departs to Paris, having previously received a letter from a certain man. Shortly after his arrival, the same man is found dead, and suspicion falls upon the mages of the Circle of Thorns, an organization whose history with Lorenzo is long, convoluted and, above al, distinctly unfriendly. Then there was Lorenzos letter; conveniently vague, providing no contact details, mentioning in one breath the trip and the bodyguard Rostov Kushan.
It figured. It just did.
I groaned. It was far more than my bored, overexcited psyche could take. Grabbing the incriminating letter, and sticking it into the pocket of my jacket, I headed home, where I ransacked the closets and forgotten corners, rapidly packing a suitcase. I called up the airline companies on the East Coast, and flipped the light and power in Sashas lab. I headed straight to the closet, and extracted my long, curved, steel-point umbrella.
Then I went to look for Garent.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter III
In Which Family Matters Are Brought To Attention, And Issues Of Trust Are Discussed
I arrived at Garents door at unholy oclock in the morning.
It was, in fact, even worse on my end of the country, but the three hour difference played neatly into my impatient hands, and my general sleepless attitude, and I was hopping around the cool, dawny streets of the city the moment it was sufficiently light to say Shma.
Garent is a sweet kid, and very helpful in situations when being intelligent doesnt suffice. I dont wish to imply he is in any way stupid; simply that when the task roster has to be divided between the two of us, I usually get the cerebral part, and he gets to throw things around. By this count, together with the ability, all too rare among my circle of acquaintances, to tread delicately in a morally gray area, and not burst into histrionics, he is an incredibly useful fellow to have.
It doesnt hurt that, at a casual glance, he looks like my son, or little brother. Blond, blue-eyed and small, the colouring superimposes a sort of illusion for the casual observer when we stand side by side that provides a useful, if erroneous, first impression. He does not look much like me if one is attentive; Garent is a handsome fellow, whereas I could be permanently cast into the role of mousy nothing in a film (though they would have to provide for a replacement to impersonate the obligatory beautiful all along moments) but the illusion is sufficient to mislead in the short span of time it takes to have a casual conversation. My sentiments on the matter aside, it is that much more plausible for a woman to be traveling along Europe with her son than to be doing so with a twenty-years-younger friend. I wasnt or so I assumed going to have much in the way of time; I could afford to spare the sidelong glances.
Garent, being an altogether not normal person, doesnt have a door for me to come knock at, even metaphorically. I had to content myself with dropping my suitcase in the base of the group of which I was still, nominally, a member. I had been expecting my severance letter for these past months, and none had ever arrived. My biometrics was never taken out of the security system, and the passwords have not been changed without my being notified. An altogether suspicious affair, which left me wondering constantly just what my slightly-clairvoyant friend was planning.
I sat down on the couch, and pulled out a book. The base was empty, sounded hollow; the single, solitary sound about the place was the unnerving, even ticking of a clock, somewhere in the distance, and what sounded, implausibly, like dripping water.
Garent showed up at half-past-unholy.
Sofia, he greeted me without a great deal of surprise. Youre here pretty early.
Tell me about it. My eyes were puffy, and I was already living off of caffeine, guzzling teacup after teacup of incredibly strong, black brew. My blood was slowly turning into a mix of adrenaline, insomnia and sugar. I probably had a slightly wild look about me, because Garent was eyeing me, and the suitcase at my feet, with a certain degree of nervousness.
You didnt fight with Alex, did you?
God, no! In my entire married life, all twenty odd years of it, Sasha and I have argued plenty, fought more than enough, and wanted to kill each other with almost alarming frequency. In all that time Ive come down to packing a suitcase merely packing, mind only twice. Perhaps thrice. If nothing else, my natural distaste towards airing my dirty laundry in public would have prevented me from flinging open the front door and storming out every time we quarreled. It was, and still is, in my mind, a form of exhibitionism, playing not only upon the sentiments of the offending and offended party, but also upon the opinion of the neighbours, the family, the public
if I were to step out of my marriage in a huff, this would not be the place I would come to.
So whats the matter? Somethings up, isnt it?
Garent was almost too astute for his and my own good. This time, however, it cut through unnecessary small talk conveniently. I waved him down to the couch, and gave a rather detailed summary of the last day, letters and all.
When I had finished, Garent was looking at me thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair. It could just be some sort of accident, you know.
It could, I affirmed, albeit in an unconvincing voice, but then again, it could not and where does that leave us then?
Probably somewhere pretty bad.
My thought exactly, I prodded the suitcase with my foot, discharging nervous energy. Thats what I want to find out. I dont want to make any fuss; if its just a coincidence, well go home after having earned ourselves an unexpected vacation in Paris. Youve never been to Paris, have you?
No.
Lovely place, altogether worth seeing. I cajoled without quite getting to the point of groveling. And if something is, indeed, going on, I might not be in a position to handle it all by myself.
Garent blinked. Youre beginning to scare me, if youre actually implying that youre useless.
Oh, I am far from useless, I hastened to reassure him, though, at the moment, I felt rather particularly so. My legs were like jelly after the long night and hasty change of time zones, and Id been leaning on my umbrella-cane for all it was worth. But I am in no fighting condition; Ill be the first to admit that. And if the Circle is actually involved we might have to fight. Besides, taking a partner seems to be traditional for the enterprise. Even Lorenzo took someone with him.
Someone who very clearly wasnt me. That hurt, and I didnt wish to dwell on it. It was not that he would have thought me useless, as Garent suggested. At the least I was still useful as a qualified medic with decades of experience, and as a trained scholar. I still knew more than he did of the present-day world. No, uselessness was not the issue. Trust, on the other hand, was. Rostov was a mercenary; he did contract jobs of all sorts, for anybody who was willing to hire him. He was, I have to admit, the perfect choice for the occasion. He is sufficiently ruthless and practical to not hesitate before firing his formidable collection of weapons, knows enough about the arcane to make correct snap judgments, is intelligent and, perhaps most importantly, has a code of honour which decrees that a job must be seen to its end. When bought, he stays bought.
I rather like Rostov. I just didnt have to like the circumstances.
The problem in my presence, as I saw it, was precisely that I was not for hire. Lorenzo could not hope to put it on anything but an equal footing and he was not used to answering questions. Asking yes; answering not so much. So he had weighted the option and, aside from needing a man of muscle, which I assuredly was not, realized that Rostov would follow his lead, whereas I hadnt a scrap of docile following left in me.
Garent was saying something, however, and I forced myself to focus. You were saying?
I said, he repeated patiently, that one person might not be enough. You know, maybe we should take a couple more?
And hang up signs on every billboard in Europe? No, I shook my head. Between you, Lorenzo and Rostov with whatever help you can get from me we should be able to handle anything thrown at us, dont you think?
That, Garent muttered under his breath, assumes that Lorenzo himself is not the problem.
Its not an option I even wish to entertain.
I was treading very close to a lie. It was not an option I wished to entertain, but, nonetheless, it was an option which hounded me ceaselessly ever since the names on the newscast and the letters on Lorenzos table snapped into place. The landscape drawn by such a possibility was eerie and bleak, and I had no wish to tread it. The notion of Lorenzo sweeping through Europe as though he were a hurricane of destruction made me shudder inwardly and yet
and yet was not altogether implausible. It was precisely such an occasion which I most dreaded, and it was for this reason, too, that I had approached Garent rather than seek help elsewhere. Garents innate suspiciousness, and his mistrust of Lorenzo, were famed.
Both of us could comprehend murder. We had both come across circumstances where the optimal perhaps the sole solution resulted in death. And we had faced it down. The option, thus, that this death had been caused by Lorenzo, did not completely horrify or revolt me. Yet, if he had murdered brutally, and without a cause
Then it would fall to Garent to do what was necessary in a place where I could not.
Lets not make hasty assumptions. I hoped that none of this furious internal monologue was reflected in my face. Let us first arrive at the scene, orient ourselves, then decide precisely what course of action we must take.
All right, I suppose. He was not convinced, but he was patient enough not to press me, and let the matter lie.
We need to hurry up and get you some normal clothes, I eyed his blue mage-robes critically, and condemned them for the purposes of secrecy. The plane takes off in three hours.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter IV
In Which A Curator Is Visited And A Discovery Is Made
Ive never much liked Paris. My first memories of it placed the city and all in it squarely into the sort of place described by Twain in Innocents Abroad; the marvelous and glorified antiques dirty and covered with a layer of soot, and the picturesque streets in urgent need of sweeping. The entire place was swathed in gray and occluded with fog. It was as though the Parisians, tired of their eternal war with the bastards on the other side of the channel, had gone and stolen the famous London smog. Sadly, just as with many things transported, it suited its new locale not at all.
Nonetheless, the landing in Paris was, for me, a sort of relief; as though a deep-seated background ache in my back had finally subsided. I am, still and in most regards, a European by temperament and inclination, and, while it is impossible for me to feel completely at home anywhere in the end I feel more comfortable here. If asked and I suppose I am asked, come to think of it Id say that the issue is in the weight; the pressure of centuries of history, the feeling of time borne by civilization. It is as though, being what I am, I have become so used to that weight pressing down on my shoulders, oppressing me, that when, in new, young America, it is removed, I feel the lifting off almost as physical pain.
Well, they do say Russians need to be oppressed.
The exit from Charles de Gaulle airport greeted Garent and me with a steady, cold drizzle and a chilly wind. I fumbled around, juggling suitcase, carry-on bag and coat while attempting to remove the plastic wrapping from my packaged umbrella (too much metal content for a carry on item for Airport Securitys liking). Finally, the plastic snapped off, and drifted to the sidewalk in a cloud of rustling sheets. The wind picked it up immediately, and swept it away before I could pretend to be a good environmentalist, and toss it in the garbage bin.
Give me your arm! I commanded to Garent, who obliged, looking slightly disconcerted.
I snapped up my umbrella, and put it to its original use for the first time in a year.
Okay, Garent looked around, disinterested. Now what?
Hotel, shower, sleep, I listed wistfully. Preferably in that order.
I thought we had an investigation to run.
Its eleven oclock at night, Garent, I pointed out, jerking my chin at the quite evidently dark sky over our heads. Everybodys asleep. I am not desperate enough to try for a secret police imitation just yet. If we discover things are really bad, then Ill start dragging people to interrogations in the middle of the night, not before.
Oh, he shifted from one foot to another, slipped my mind.
I had to smile at that. Only Garent was capable of assessing a situation instantly for all its implicit and explicit dangers and, at the same time, failing to notice that it was dark. I grabbed my suitcase and sighed, feeling Garents hand lock on my elbow. Lets go find a shuttle.
I slept poorly. I often sleep poorly natural sensitivity to sound combines with unrestful nervousness, tension, and sometimes worse but this night was especially erratic. The hotel rooms windows were only several stories over the street, and the constant noise of passing vehicles was loud and jarring in the otherwise quiet environment. I woke up finally and irreversibly about an hour after dawn, feeling heavy, slow and jet-lagged, and, realizing that going back to sleep was a failed endeavour, sat down to attempt to make my plans for the day.
It would be best, I decided, if I were to wave my credentials around as little as possible. I could, of course, throw about the weight of my career, both academic and otherwise, but I would much have preferred not to do so. I thought it likely that, as a rule, my academic credentials would suffice in the places where we would be going. It was not my normal occupation, but few museum curators and staff would say no to a professor of linguistics come visiting.
Then I considered my priorities; the two most obvious routes of investigation open to me were, firstly, to attempt to track Lorenzo down or, secondly, to investigate the murder itself. I quickly decided to opt for the second course, if only to save myself undue embarrassment. I had no intention of stalking friends who were away on a trip to Europe, after all; if the murder were to prove to be innocuous unconnected, I corrected myself I would leave matters as they are. Unless it was sufficiently sinister for me to follow up, of course. Only if it appeared to me that there was need would I attempt to track Lorenzo further.
I dressed carefully, and went to knock on Garents door.
You have your cards with you? We strode out of the hotel into a cool, but sunny, Parisian spring. IDs and so forth?
Garent waved his hand, indicating a nebulous place of storage, somewhere in the vicinity of his ear. Of course.
Good, I waved a hand for a taxi, because you are now the official consultant for MAGI, expert on all things Circle, here vo-lun-tarily to help them out, and you want a look at the body.
I do? Garent blinked, and dove into the cab behind me. I raised a pointed eyebrow. Oh, okay. I do. So what does that make you?
I grinned fiercely. Im the person who knows French.
It seems insignificant to recap our encounters at the police station. The place was, in the vein of every police station out there, filled with busy, nervous people, annoyed officers, unhelpful secretaries and irritable detectives. We made our way through them in the usual manner; cajoling, bullying, asking (repeatedly, many times) and convincing. The basic routine Garent waving around his ID cards, and me ploughing through the policemens indignation with conveniently placed diplomacy (with the occasional help of a gunboat or two) eventually brought us to the chief detective of Homicide who, after taking a look at Garent and his assortment of stamps, badges and plastic laminated cards, simply sighed in resignation and waved us off with a tired, heavily accented zhust do what you want.
The small, nearsighted shift pathologist in the morgue squinted at Garent with dubious eyes for almost an entire minute, then looked up at me and shook his head. Hes quite young, isnt he?
A little older than he looks, I reassured the man, though not adding but not much. We will just have a brief look at Doctor Benvenistes body, and well go.
You came in good time, then. The man waved us behind him, and led the way on to the mortuary, tossing us a pair of white coats from a rack and puling on a set of gloves. The family insists on a quick burial just as soon as the forensic report is done.
I nodded. And they didnt like the notion of an autopsy.
Not especially, the man blinked at me several times, his eyes almost, but not quite, level with my own. Not that there is much need, as you will shortly see
Ere, young man, he told Garent, speaking English with only a faint trace of generic accent best defined as European, this is your man.
He opened the steel door, and rolled the body out. After the plastic was removed I saw that Benveniste was a man of medium height, somewhere in his sixties, moderately overweight and comfortably balding on the forehead. I couldnt tell much about his face beyond that because a literal half of it was slashed almost entirely off with a large, hooked claw. I breathed through my mouth rapidly.
I do not fear death. To be precise, I do not fear it after it had already occurred. By some combination of nature and nurture I possess a stomach of iron in regards to all things grisly; the daughter of a physician, I am accustomed to dinner conversation that would send most guests hurtling into the bathroom, and entice them to stay there thereafter. Add to that the fact that Ive worked as EMT during wartime, and my reaction to corpses is downright indifferent. This one, however, evoked a reaction even out of me. The body was practically shredded; the only parts remaining completely intact were the hands and the scalp, with hair attached. The palms of the hands were bruised and blown to twice their size, long slashes with congealed blood running along them.
Garent, eyes narrowed and forehead set in a frown, started pacing around the body, sometimes leaning in to look at one thing or another. I took a palm between my fingers, flipping it over delicately. What was the cause of death determined to be?
The pathologist looked sharply at me, then at Garent. He hesitated for a moment, then looked at me again. Blood loss in the intestine.
Really? I murmured under my breath, leaning closer in to examine Benvenistes mutilated torso. It smelled like rot and formalin, and I nearly gagged. So they were not going for a quick kill.
What did they need, then? Garent peered behind my shoulder with attentive eyes.
Torture. I replaced the hand in its previous position and it rested, stiffly, on the rolling slab. A person lives for quite a while after being eviscerated; long enough for him to talk.
And did he? The pathologist stared at me curiously.
That, I grimaced, is altogether beyond me. I think we are quite done here. I turned to Garent. Unless there was something else you wanted?
No. We thanked the little doctor who remained, covering the body with its plastic sheet and rolling the trundle into its assigned niche while we walked slowly out of the morgue, and up to the street.
We paced along the corridor slowly; I took slow, steady breaths.
There is something else, by the way, Garent noted softly after we were out of earshot, and out of sight of the morgue door.
Really? I stopped, turned towards him and leaned on the brick wall of the morgue building.
Yeah. He stopped also and I motioned him to keep talking. The Circle didnt do it.
No? I pursed my lips, feeling my stomach begin to twist. How do you know?
I know the Circle pretty well, Garent explained patiently. And these were the wrong kind of wounds. Thorn daggers leave different wounds, and theyre not the right claws for Behemoths.
So then who did do it?
He shook his head. No idea. Something big that has claws, but not Circle.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter V
In Which Condolences Are Given
How interesting, I breathed, staring at Garent intently. Then I detached myself from the wall, and strode to the edge of the sidewalk raising my hand. A small taxi cab screeched to a halt in front of us with screaming tires and the swarthy driver gave us a white-toothed smile of contentment. He was clearly more accustomed to driving in the streets of Casablanca or Algiers but that was all to the best we will be that much the faster getting where we were going. Come on.
He got in after me. Where are we going?
I leaned over to the driver giving him the destination. Its about time we visited the crime scene, dont you think?
The way was not particularly long. The body was moved to the morgue and forensics institute of the same arrondissement in which the murder had occurred the 1st and the centre of Paris, while crowded and packed full of sights, was not, in the end, a large area. The driver took turns with the panache of a motorcyclist, and navigated lights with the enthusiasm of a cavalry soldier, all while speeding like a bona fide pilot. I held on to the seat for dear life.
Mondavi couldnt have done it, Garent stated flatly, his thought rather echoing my own. I grimaced and nodded agreement which was part relief and part worry. It didnt take much for me to concur to the hypothesis that one of my best friends had, indeed, not just eviscerated an innocent museum curator. Lorenzo was, in many ways, an exceptionally ruthless man
but I trusted his honour better than mine own, and torture had no place there.
Now all we have to figure out, I said darkly, staring out the window at the flying chestnut trees, is just how much of a mess Lorenzo and Rostov are in, and then we can go home.
We descended into the familiar pyramid of the Louvre, and I found myself, despite everything, grinning in anticipation. It was, after all, one of the greatest museums in the world, comparable only to the British Museum in London and the St. Petersburg Hermitage. The French and British spent centuries prettying up their museums, robbing antiques from every nation of significance on the planet, and now the five-legged lions of Babylon, the Egyptian sphinxes and the Mesopotamian tablets had no better display than this Parisian palace.
We trailed through the museum as slowly as I dared while still having some pity on Garent. Occasionally I found myself trailing a wistful finger on a glass case, or covertly touching a statue. I couldnt keep my hands off these delicate and yet astonishingly sturdy pieces of antiquity; living time preserved in a bottle, encapsulated in glass, put forth for everyone to see. The place boasted paintings from all over the world, of all styles and artistic movements (though the moderna was, thankfully, ensconced in the Gallerie Lafayette, far from spoiling the ancient beauty of the place) and I nodded a sort of amused greeting to familiar images light trapped by someones whim on canvas and hung from a wall.
Garent had nothing to do in the galleries and galleries of paintings, so we hurried through.
The administrative centre offices, preservation rooms, unloading areas and all is neatly concealed under the Tullerie gardens. At the secretarial desk I introduced myself to a thin, nervous woman whose eyes constantly shifted around. Not her natural state, I deduced, but rather the result of shock and fear.
And this is Garent, I nodded to my right, (mis)pronouncing his name a la French style, with the emphasis resting squarely on the second syllable. He glared at me. I smirked back. If I could put up with the constant mispronunciation of my name by all and sundry (including but not limited to emphasis), he could handle a single experience, traumatic though it may be.
Sign here, please. The woman handed me a pen and a large, bound visitors book. I signed and dated my entry, smiling at the secretary, who returned me a terse nervous sort of grimace.
You get a lot of visitors here, madame? I asked pleasantly, while flipping idly through the pages, reading times and signatures curiously.
Oh yes, the woman livened up a little. All sorts of experts, visitors, collectors
.
That must be hard work.
Oh no, its tolerable, she slammed the keyboard several times in quasi-frustration. Except now, of course. That ghastly, ghastly murder
I nodded sadly, murmured something sufficiently vague and towed Garent off, holding my umbrella a little off the floor. Marble and empty, echoing corridors did not provide a convenient acoustics; it annoyed me, and spooked everyone around me. They were here, all right.
How did you figure that?
I looked them up in the visitors book, while I was leafing through it. I know Lorenzos handwriting; its pretty distinct. Rostov signed right underneath him. And a third person who came at the same date and time, with a very illegible signature, I added drily. Whoever scrawled his name underneath the other two must have been in a tearing hurry; the signature looked more like a line of unbroken ink than anything else. They had signed in and signed out only a short while before Benvenistes death. We took several turns, and went down a floor, looking around the white, long corridors until I finally poked my head hesitantly into the directors door.
Yes? The man was brusque and lean and, in all ways, quite the opposite of his neighbour and co-worker, the late doctor. He also didnt seem in the least pleased. I could understand him, as such things went; the last couple days must have been terrible, with reporters and policemen and the curious never giving anyone in the museum a moments rest when all they wanted was to forget the whole frightening incident as quickly as possible. We dont see reporters outside of press conferences.
I
I apologize... I mumbled. Perhaps this is a bad time
I heard about Dr. Benveniste, I corresponded occasionally
Was here
Decided to come in person
I didnt need to fake my acute embarrassment. I am rather timid with people, uncomfortable busting into their privacy and disturbing them. My demeanor was made more diffident by my profound sense of guilt; here I was, pretending to be the acquaintance of a dead man, faking sympathy where all I felt was a generic, impersonal sort of pity, wheedling information out of a coworker, all with the intent of protecting one who would, potentially, be a suspect for the gruesome murder. Not pretty, admit.
Oh, the director rubbed red-rimmed eyes, and the sour expression slowly dropped from his face. Im sorry. I didnt mean to do that. You understand, of course, how it is here
Come on in.
After he was mollified, the man seemed inclined to chat, almost relieved that he could spew forth his annoyance with the police and the press, his fear of the Circle and his obvious flustered attitude as to whom to appoint as Benvenistes replacement. I listened with interest, nodding from time to time, hands draped in my lap. Its amazing what one can get out of people with sufficiently lengthy silences and the occasional nod.
That seems like a tragedy, I slid my own sentence in between the mans complaints. Such a brilliant scholar
What was he working on last?
Some things we received as donation, the man grunted sourly, from a professor fellow here, in the Sorbonne. He was almost half-mad, if you ask me. Muttered some incomprehensible things, was obsessed with the temple of Anshar
only Claude could make head or tale of that mess. Now I am stuck with it.
Anshar
Anshar
I muttered, wracking my brain for any trace of what the name might be. Thats
Akkadian.
Oh, yes. I seized upon the period gratefully. I deal with a somewhat later area; Judean and Israelite antiques. An important discovery?
If anyone could ever decide what it meant! the man slammed a balled fist onto the table, then stared at me, shocked, before beginning a run of profuse and half-gibbered apologies. I judged him to be one of these people who, while comfortable enough in a position of moderate authority, bent completely out of shape facing events they could not quantify into their checkbooks, write down into their diaries and mark on their calendars. The director would have been a much happier man if, for the sake of politeness, Benveniste were to hand in a notice regarding his upcoming murder at least two weeks in advance. And now, without that cylinder Claude was working on, the point seems to be moot anyway.
Is it gone?
Requisitioned. On loan. So much the better for me. You must excuse me, madame, he stared at a wall clock, I have yet another member of the press to placate now.
I thanked the man for his time, and we rose to go. Perfunctory farewells and well-wishes were exchanged, and we walked out. I couldnt help feeling, at the least, vaguely worried. Even if they didnt murder the man, putting artifact theft past Rostov and Lorenzo wasnt a leap of faith I was quite willing to take. The entire situation was much too ambiguous and complicated for me to make a great deal of deductions on.
We walked out to the cool street. Only then did I finally notice the passage of time; the sun was slowly edging towards west, turning red and small, and the sky was painted with the purples and dark blues of twilight. Between the examination of the body (largely due to being preceded with a tag game of authority with the police) and the visit in the bowels of the Louvre, the day had waned. I was tired, anxious and starving. And things were very quickly about to come to a point where I would be able to do very little.
I decided to relax. This was Paris, after all. While I had no interest in participating in its assorted and supposedly glamorous night life, I was entirely partial to its cuisine.
Come on, I told Garent, looking around the bank of the Seine for something that looked good. Lets go get dinner.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter VI
In Which Snails Are Demeaned And Flashing Lights Lead The Way
Garent, as I should have anticipated, shifted uncomfortably.
Really, this is a bit of a non-sequitur. I could very well skip this part of the events, as I had conveniently skipped the dismal meal served on the trans-Atlantic plane, and the coffee and croissant I managed to nab in the hotel restaurant before going off to the police station. I could very well present only and solely the dry facts, leaving dinners and side conversation, but that would give nothing of the character of the people involved, and no context for the occurrences. Nature abhors vacuum; not, perhaps, in space, but, certainly, in human interactions. And so
Garent shifted uncomfortably. Dont we have investigating to do?
After dinner, I said rather firmly. Some of us actually need to eat.
But then it would be dark! That was your excuse yesterday!
Yes, I said, very patiently, with great reserve, calmly, in an explanatory tone It will be dark, and people will be wanting rest. Hence why every research I do after dinner will be on the internet.
Oh
Garent seemed to waver between polite and downright crestfallen. I guess
.
Come on, Garent, I encouraged him, this is Paris! It has some of the best cuisine in the world, and if you tell people that you went to Paris and didnt even go to a single restaurant they will put you to mockery for the rest of your natural life. Besides, I added with a small smile, its not like you have anything better to do.
Garent, you see, regards food in the same way most normal people regard esoterica like little snakes coiled in their Vodka bottles and ants covered in chocolate. He can abstain from food entirely, and, therefore, he does so. It hasnt occurred to him yet that not everything that is humanly (or metahumanly) possible is actually a good idea. Neither did it occur to him that food is tasty. Therefore, the notion of a restaurant, for him, is approximately equivalent to a rabid football fanatic watching chick flicks with his wife, or a mother cheering her sons on in a hockey tourneys.
In short, he does it to oblige his favourite people in the world.
Since he actually walked into the restaurant with me, took up a menu and started staring at it as though it were about to bite him, Ive rapidly and gratefully reclassified myself in that category.
It took us, incidentally, only about fifteen minutes to find a place I deemed appropriate. Because, honestly, if I am already wasting half my monthly wages flying transatlantic and paying for two, I am not about to purchase a hot-dog from a vendour. Luckily, though, the gardens by the Louvre and the Arc de Triumphe, facing the Seine River, constitute an absolutely classic locale for food purchase done in style. I could only have been more pretentious if Id gone to eat on top of the Eiffel tower. I picked a small place that gave off the atmosphere of home with a touch of class, and promised food that would be plentiful, slightly ordinary, and astonishingly good. I was proven right when the basket of bread on out table made me want to swoon with unrequited love, and the butter had herbs in it.
Garent stared at the menu at length, leafing through it uncertainly, occasionally peering over it at me with the vain hope in his eyes that I would come to his rescue. I did.
If you want to say you really were in France, try the escargot, I suggested blandly.
Ew. He retreated from the table, face contorted with disgust. Seriously, Sofia. Do you want me to throw up all over the tablecloth?
I want you to first not keep your elbows on it, I admonished, draping the napkin in my lap as an example. And if youre really afraid of overeating, try the onion soup. Its this one, I pointed to the entry, writ plainly under Soup, and Garent frowned at me with his customary I am not amused look. He did order the soup, however, and poked his spoon at it cautiously. When the soup failed to jump him with claws and fangs extended, he ate it, and didnt seem to suffer too badly.
The table conversation, such as it was, veered, by my consistent efforts, away from all things Akkadian, museum-ish or related to our trip aside from the city itself. Only once did I skirt the issues at hand.
You are the only person I know, I rolled my eyes as Garent was still poking at his soup, who finds escargot more revolting than a tortured, dead body.
Ive seen a surprising number of bodies, Garent muttered sourly, but I never had snails for dinner. So there.
For a dinner in my company, the affair was surprisingly quiet. I wont hide that I felt, perhaps, a little gloomy. Here I was, in Paris, the most romantic city on the planet, eating excellent food in an excellent restaurant
and every male with whom there was even the merest scrap of romantic potential in my life was altogether unavailable. Instead I was half a world away from home, eating this splendid dinner
with Garent.
I couldnt help sighing a little into my teacup.
After dinner, we went back to the hotel. Our hotel, as much as it is worthy of description, is precisely one of these places to which the term nondescript can be applied without fear and reproach. It is located in the outskirts of Paris, and from the windows one can see some street lights, and a road. There are no night lights of a glamorous city, no rivers or bridges, not much of anything except roaring motorcycles passing on the nearby highway. The rooms are comfortable enough, but rather stark, and feature a bed, a bathroom, a television and a basic internet connection.
It was this connection that I now put to good use.
Searching online is not my specialty; Alexander does it better and faster. His technical mind manages to grasp how to find the most precise information whereas I seem to be able to search only in sweeping categories. Such general approach is exceptionally useful in the assimilation of information but not, sadly, in its procurement. A generalists life in the age of overload is hard. However, the temple of Anshar (as I found out, reading article after article) was a subject esoteric enough that it was possible to narrow down my search to a specific key area, and apply my generalist skills to studying the matter thoroughly.
Of course once I began burrowing into the subject, I became fascinated. That is not, in and of itself difficult; I drool over archaeology like a child, and history makes me forget any and all obligations I have. This time, too, I forgot (for a short while) all about Lorenzo and Rostov, the murders and even Garent who sat in the rooms spare armchair, idly watching television and dove into the information headfirst. I was brought back to the present day by a rather accidental reference.
Oh, look, I tapped the monitor lightly with a finger, staring at the Louvre pages. Here is our insane professor.
Who?
I remembered that Garent, so far as I knew, didnt know French, and so remained ignorant of the conversation I had with the Louvre director. This fellow, de Sarzec, who donated artifacts to the Louvre.
Maybe Lorenzo went to see that guy, too.
Hes a few months dead, I clarified further. Thats how donation to museums of postmortem works usually happens. And oh, look-- Heres Lorenzo.
It was a short article from the associated press wire, published in some obscure culture magazine in the U.K. and was, mostly a listing of collectible antiques sold and purchased. I glanced at the line which interested me specifically:
[ QUOTE ]
Manuscript, Arabian: Small manuscript famous as the single post-Assyrian mention of the destruction of the temple of Anshar. Arabic calligraphy, well-preserved. Sold for 550,000 USD to Mr. Thomas Amann in the name of the esteemed Mr. Heinrich Auer. The purchaser, a known collector of middle-eastern manuscripts narrowly outbid one Lorenzo Mondavi on behalf of an anonymous party.
[/ QUOTE ]
Another spurt of online tagging and refining brought me, after a half hour or so, a shortened list of likely names, all connected in some way either with Lorenzo or with the Anshar finds. I stretched my aching back, and crossed my hands behind my head.
So, I listed, thinking out loud more than speaking to anyone in particular. We have a list of names. Donald Bertram, Thomas Amann, Fischer, Mark Fuchs, this fellow Hei
Heinrich Auer, Garent finished, promptly.
Thats right. I blinked and turned around to stare at him with surprise. How do you know?
He pointed to the television screen, where red and blue sirens flashed, and the rumble of voices could be heard on camera. Because hes dead.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter VII
In Which The Ante Is Upped and Cards Are Played
Vienna Explosion Kills Five!
So I read tremulously, after the howl of sirens on television quieted down somewhat.
[ QUOTE ]
Approximately at four oclock in the afternoon, an explosion could be heard from one of the most prestigious apartment buildings in Vienna, the residence of the known art collector and philanthropist Mr. Heinrich Auer. The resident himself is presumed among the deceased, together with four people, most likely neighbours and business associates. The names of the other victims were not released. Authorities are currently working on identifying the remains, and informing the families.
Chief of Vienna police told the Associated Press, in response that: This is a horrible incident, and the police forces and government will dedicate all the resources to discovering the culprits.
The background for the deed is presumed criminal, though nationalist and political motives are also being investigated.
[/ QUOTE ]
Etc etc. I sat there for a while, hands draped over the keyboard. Sat, because I frankly couldnt stand, with my hands draped so that the shaking would not be visible.
Sofia? Garent was peering over my shoulder as I read, and he was looking at me now.
Yeah?
Everything okay? You sound a little
Oh yes. Fine. I lied through my teeth, hoping that my voice no longer sounded shaken. I wasnt fine. I felt white there was no sensation in my face except cold which meant I probably looked like a sheet, or a whitewashed wall. Im just
taking a minute.
It was bad. It was very, very bad. I dont want to describe how bad it was, and I am not certain I can. My mind was doing cartwheels; it felt like some sort of hamster in a wheel, running places with no perceivable results. If Rostov and Lorenzo were among the victims, the possibility of identification stood on almost nil. Their DNA at least Lorenzos certainly was not on file anywhere, and no one except me knew where they had gone, and even I did not know for certain. They would simply disappear, presumed dead, and no one would spend much time looking. The only option I had was to drop all secrecy and go in, guns blazing.
I struggled to my feet, holding on to the edge of the table, and went to call Rostov.
I havent done this before. Not because the number was unavailable but, well
because of the same reason I had began with the murder investigation. A conflagration of reasons wavering between the unwillingness to disturb without real necessity, the fear that I might spook my prey, the notion that if something truly important had been going on the phone calls would remain unanswered. All were good reasons previously, but not any longer: the necessity of verifying that they were actually alive and unhurt came before everything.
The phone rang. I held on to the connection so long as it was feasible, then dropped the receiver to its cradle. Then I sat down on the bed, struggling with panic. It was highly imminent, and would have been, al things told, completely useless. I could do very little for the nausea of fear and the lightheadedness which assaulted me simultaneously. Nothing.
Im confused. What sort of person would go running around eviscerating people with claws, and then blowing them up? Garent looked at the computer screen thoughtfully. That doesnt seem in style.
Thats assuming there is only one person, I answered hollowly.
Two groups of people running after the same thing? Garent frowned. Though
Now that I think about it blowing someone up seems like a sort of
Rostov-ish thing to do. Dont you think?
No!
I must have been a little too vehement, because Garent peered at me closely. Much more closely than I would have liked, in my present state. He was a convenient companion in many ways; he was not exceptionally good at reading people and, due to certain limitations, missed clues that otherwise would be highly telltale if he was not utterly attentive. Generally, I could keep a certain level of anonymity with him, even one-on-one, and even though he knew me sufficiently well for that not to be a burden. I was never much inclined to expose my panic to anyone, much less a person twenty years younger than myself.
Now, however, his attention was fully focused, and, thus, quite formidable. Youre worried. Do you seriously think they died? We dont even know if they were there.
There were four unidentified bodies, or so they assume, my tone was as inflectionless as before. They could be anybody. With a sufficiently bad explosion in a small, confined space like an apartment, the only real way to find out that someone was there is to have seen them go in. even then its difficult to determine which remains belong to whom and Lorenzo has no living relatives.
I could tell you if they died, he offered, after staring at me for a full minute.
He could. Garent was a mage with certain additional talents. He could see connections between people like, or so he explained to me, waves in a pool of water. How one was ever supposed to make sense of the chaotic patterns of ripples and intersections in a pool was entirely beyond me but, then, I suppose that is his real talent. Most anybody can imagine a pool, if they try hard enough, but only a very few can tell you what it means.
He also knew perfectly well how much I disliked the notion of divinations of any sort, predictions and guesswork, and how much I doubted the veracity of it. That he had offered was clearly indicative that hed seen and grasped my distress.
I gulped. Did they die?
I dont know from here. But we could check out the place, or maybe the bodies
I sprang to my feet, fighting nausea as I did. My fear was not gone, but it was, at least redirected towards action. Come on, Garent. Get packing.
Isnt it late?
It is. I started tossing what little of my luggage Id pulled out back into the suitcase, raidly folding clothes as I went. Remember when I said I wasnt desperate enough to start pulling people out of their beds for a secret police routine?
Yeah.
Well, I am now officially desperate. I grabbed the receiver from its cradle again, and dialed the lobby for a taxi to the airport. Five minutes later I was ready with the suitcase by the door, while Garent ran into his room to grab his little traveling bag.
Paris Orly is a large airport, though smaller than the monstrosity that is Charles de Gaulle. Our cab screeched into the departures area and halted amid the throng of people, cases, luggage carts and hugging couples that is the usual fare of airports the world over. I paid the driver with shaking hands, and half-ran into the terminal, Garent in tow. My fear had now transformed itself into a rush of pure adrenaline, and an almost frenetic energy that wouldnt let me sit still for a moment. I felt a world removed from the place I needed to be though as is the case with most of Europe I was only a brief two hours flight away.
We took our place in the ticket line, and I shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably.
I seriously think you worry too much, Garents attempt at comfort was admirable, if fell woefully short. You really have no way of knowing they were there, and youre just making yourself nervous.
I cant seem to help it, I confessed. Someone just upped the ante on us. If anything, this idea of following Lorenzos trail, such as it is, is no longer sufficient. If every person he might be in touch with is risking death, we need to bestir ourselves and actually get there before they get shot, or blown up, or clawed to death.
Maybe we should start doing that then.
Just as soon as I find out if one of my friends has been crushed to little pieces, I will make a point of it, I answered drily, and concluded the conversation for the duration of our sojourn in line.
Next!
Demoiselle, I sounded too curt and impolite, but my nerves had run out. Two tickets to Vienna on the next flight.
Ill check. A brief moment of typing and an unpleasant frown were followed by a fake, plastic smile. Im very sorry; we have no seats left until tomorrow afternoon. There are two business class seats open there.
I need something soonest, its an emergency.
I apologize, but its impossible, you should try a different destination to have an emergency at.
I lost my temper entirely. Cut that, I growled, yanking my impressive array of cards out of my wallet and flinging them to the counter in front of the astonished womans face. Garent, your IDs! He stared at me, befuddled, then added his own cards onto the pile. The stewardess, pale and shaking, stared at me with wide eyes.
I know every flight has a reservation list of people who never show up, I told the woman in a flat, distinctly unfriendly voice. Please make sure two of those seats go to us. And, I added primly as she printed our passes, making a point of driving the point home, for the benefit of future passengers, fellow victims of misery, if nothing else, next time, may I suggest not to be facetious when someone tells you they have an emergency?
Yes, maam
the woman stammered at me, and handed us the boarding passes, peering cautiously as though she expected us to grow wings and horns on the instant.
I picked up the passes, gathered up my cards, IDs and security passes, all laminated in their own little plastic wraps, busily stuffing them into their designated spots. Garent took up his, still staring at me with an unreadable expression. Half an hour later we were both scrunched between a fat man and a woman with an infant on our way to Vienna.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter VIII
in Which Wishful Thinking Is Employed
Vienna greeted us in a cold and unfriendly manner. Perhaps it was not really that cold and unfriendly, but my own demeanour was stiff and brusque, discomfort tucked carefully away under businesslike drapes. I am never comfortable in this part of the world (the German speaking one, that is), there are too many bad associations for someone such as me. The press of history which, in other places, is a welcome weight, here becomes an unbearable grindstone. There are such places all over Europe where, stepping on the ground, I feel as though I step upon mounds of corpses. To counter that I affect a manner which is as rigid and as arrogant as an aristocrat's, and as uncomfortable as a suit of armour.
I always have a good posture the result of merciless pounding by purist parents in childhood but when I am concealing my discomfort, or fear, I move as though a broom were attached to my spine, and a string holding my chin up. It is, if you know me well enough to recognize it, an unmistakable sign. Luckily, few people know me sufficiently well to identify it, and so my pride, at least, is spared.
Walking thus, carrying my suitcase and umbrella, I led Garent and myself through the ordinary tedium speaking little, and only muttering the necessary 'danke schon' or two. It's not that my language is lacking actually, my German is competent (though not quite as adequate as my French), but again, as in French I never managed to entirely rid myself of, not so much an accent, as an improper intonation. In French I merely sound as though I speak the language with a slight tendency to be singsong, which does not incriminate me. In German, however, singsong identifies one rather sharply as a Yiddishist, a notion I found even more uncomfortable.
It would be too much of a distraction from the course of the main story if this is, indeed, a story to explain just why and how people like me feel uncomfortable in the German-speaking world. Suffice it to say that, while there, my racial memory (I put this in quotation marks, because it is a fictional construct rather than a real one, despite its pervasive influence) works on overdrive.
Be that as it may, we were there, and the night was profoundly cold. The rain which, in Paris, drizzled down lightly, hit us in Vienna in sheets, and the airport was eerily silent, almost dark, at that ungodly hour of the morning. Even inside the terminal I huddled into my coat, chilled to the bone, seeing in every little nuance of the weather a sort of ill omen, though rain was, in the end, only rain.
I stared at the rain distantly through the glass of the terminal windows.
Where to now? Garent held out what at least smelled like a paper cup of coffee. I grabbed at it gratefully. It was my second no, third, I corrected myself, remembering the night before the departure night in which I got little to no decent sleep, and the effects were showing. Brutally.
We go to the crime scene immediately as soon as public transportation starts running, I answered, matter-of-fact, glancing rapidly at the large clock over my head. The hour was three in the morning; we had an hour or two to wait, and I have seldom felt more impatient in my life.
Makes sense, Garent accepted the adjustment to our till-now comfortable schedule with nary a blink. Though couldnt we go earlier? Cabs are still running, right?
I blinked, surprised, at this display of common sense. Though, I should say, thats not quite right; Garent is plenty sensible. Its his ability to orient himself within the normal world which still surprises me. It surfaces at the most unexpected times, and vanishes at times that are still more unexpected. Quite right, I said, And so we could. But
I dont know what wed do after we get there. Depending on the answers, being out in the dark, in all that rain, might not be such a good idea.
Coffee cup in hand, I abandoned the window and settled down to wait.
The cab dropped us off on the street corner, amid tall, modern skyscrapers, at the crack of dawn. The sky was gray-purple and the sun had not even begun contemplating getting out of bed just as most sane individuals. Only the criminally insane and the criminal were out at this hour. I am still not sure, after all this time, which group we two factored into.
The street corner was entirely cordoned by yellow police tape. Rather ineffectually, I thought, as there was no police there. Of course, Austria being populated, mainly, with Austrians, one could actually expect the 'do not step on the grass' signs many of the immaculately manicured lawns around sported to actually be obeyed. As a point of fact, the lawns all about looked as though dedicated owners had come out and scoured them thoroughly with a microscopic toothed comb; the night had scattered a few dead leaves and branches upon their pristine green expanses, but it had done little additional damage.
Thus, the house we sought was that much easier to spot.
Where there had previously clearly been a marvelous, fastidious lawn and, perhaps, also an exquisite garden the privilege of gardener-employing rich now was a blackened expanse of burned stalks and torn-out clots of dirt. I stared at it, mesmerized. Then I explored the walls. The apartment had been on the first floor very rich, then with a large patio and a window at least a wall wide. The glass must have been bulletproof, because chunks of it still stood, and large panes of glass lay, flung out as far as the yellow tape.
That, Garent observed at my elbow, obviously having conducted the same examination, was a big explosion.
Oh yes, I breathed. Is this close enough for you?
Sure, whatever works.
Garent ignored the yellow tape, and shuffled around. Then, slowly, he began to circle, passing as close as he could to the still-inhabited windows of neighbouring houses, peering at them intently. I wondered what he was about, and whether any of the houses presented something especially fascinating pretty young women, for instance and bit back a comment about voyeurism without a telescope. I refrained from offering my jaded wisdom, mostly, because Garent had the look in his eyes of someone who was concentrating intently, and, also, because random humour seemed inappropriate.
Garents trajectory narrowed, and he edged towards the bombed house with its yellow tape. I looked around and, noting that the street was profoundly empty, quickly lifted up the length of plastic for him, else he would have walked straight into it. Garent walked this way and that, I kept an eye out for potential problems like passers by, police or another batch of terrorists. As unlikely as any of these occurrences may have been, it was better than merely standing there, doing nothing; I was almost faint with the tension.
Several minutes passed in almost absolute silence, the tension increasing to unbearable levels.
They were here, Garent said finally, opening his eyes and relaxing from the tense, almost rigid stance he had assumed, and they left.
All the air sped out of my lungs in one long exhalation and I melted to the sidewalk, almost crying with relief. Thank God, I sat there, burying my face in my hands for a full minute, trying to control the shaking born of released tension and raw nerves and lack of sleep and fear.
You were taking this harder than I expected, Garent commented after I gathered myself into some semblance of self-possession, still sitting on the wet, cold sidewalk. I was now sufficiently coherent to feel the wet and cold through the fringe of my coat, but not yet sufficiently balanced to actually do something about it.
I take objection to people I like exploding, I said sarcastically, and examined the building with a slightly more clinical look. The glass has been neatly swept from the road to let vehicles through, but the remnants of the lawn were still full of it. It seemed as though half the windows in the building had shattered from shock. The explosion, as far as I could tell, happened inside; everything was spreading outward.
Are you okay now?
Yes... I considered that to be a satisfactorily true answer though it was not, in reality, accurate. I was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. The adrenaline which kept me functioning in spite of the anxiety fled, and I felt as though I would soon collapse and sleep right there on the sidewalk, in the middle of a police cordon, in a Viennese street. Nonetheless, the answer sufficed insofar as I was incomparably better; life was worth living again.
Oh, good. So... can we go back to the part where blowing something up is a Rostov-ish thing to do?
I frowned up at him. He was examining the scene, not quite looking at me. Do you seriously think it likely?
Well, I wouldn't bet money on it but, come on, Sofia; you have to consider the possibility.
Can't you tell, now that you're here?
Explosives are sort of difficult for me to say much about. I can't figure if they just left a bomb stashed in the place before leaving, and, unless we find what's left of the bomb, I can't tell whether they carried it with them. I don't think we'll have much luck looking, though.
Probably not, I concurred reluctantly. The police would gather any traces of it they could find. If they didn't clear this place of evidence yet, someone's neck is in a good deal of danger. Drat. That would have made things so much simpler. Of course, in most cases where magic could make things simpler, it failed rather neatly to work. Apparently there was no magical substitute for plain, old human detective work. Still, it seems... excessive.
Okay, Garent was willing to make allowances, but he was not backing down. I'll give; you know Lorenzo a lot better than I do, but you do sort of have... a blind spot about him. Your friends aren't angels, regardless of how much you want them to be.
I do not think they're angels! I objected, indignant. Garent chuckled. Well, I don't!
He crossed his arms over his chest and continued staring down at me remorselessly. Look, I began, I don't--
Uh huh. Garent ran a hand through his hair. Sofia, Rostov is a mercenary. They get hired to kill people... Or did you forget?
All right, I sighed, feeling the wind of conviction slowly flutter out of my sails. I'll grant. They're not angels and they're not above this sort of thing. If they thought it was necessary for some reason, they'd do it. Still... I don't quite get the right... vibe.
Because of something other than wishful thinking?
Well... I fell silent, thinking it through. I am a person of powerful intuitions, as much as I am a creature of logic. My subconscious has a mind of its own so to speak and it often moves to make decisions and dictate actions without informing me about them. It then falls to me, with much painstaking labour, to parse through what it had decided and done in order to figure out why. As inconvenient as such a setup is, this is my brain and I have rather learned to live with it. It is when I have to present my reasoning to other people that I encounter severe resistance.
Well, I hemmed and hawed for a while before finally getting a coherent sentence out, actually, yes. It's much too... showy. It's awfully big. Rostov might like big, loud and banging, but Lorenzo doesn't. Now half the police forces in Europe will be on the lookout for a group of terrorists. Why would he want to inconvenience himself like that? He could just... shoot the guy and make less noise. Or poison him. Or do the magic-life-drain thing. All methods as efficient and much, much quieter.
The Mafia plants car bombs all the time, Garent cogently pointed out.
Bombs are by definition a weapon of terror, Garent, I objected mildly. The Mafia uses them because putting car bombs in is relatively easy, and also because they want to make a point. This is a bomb in an apartment something by definition much more difficult and less neat and Lorenzo has no reason to try for mass hysteria. Why would he blow someone's house up?
Maybe, Garent suggested, He wanted to destroy the house?
I buried my face in my hands. Oh, come on!
Okay, so maybe that is sort of silly, but you have to admit that at least such a possibility exists.
Yes, I said quietly, staring at the rivulets of water flowing at my feet. Yes... I admit. The possibility exists.
I love Lorenzo from the brim of his hat to the tips of his very well-shined shoes but, let me tell you, right then and there I wanted to take a broom to his back, without qualms or regrets.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter IX
Where Desserts Make A Brief Appearance
I would very much like to believe that I am a fair and impartial person. Everyone would much rather believe that of themselves, because, try though one may to escape the inevitable, it is not the double helix or the form which makes us human it is the notion of the Cognitive Dissonance. If one lies to oneself sufficiently artfully, one may be considered within the classification of [censored] Sapiens, small a compliment though it is. Thus, though I was inclined to believe that my actions were objective and led by necessity, I nonetheless was forced to admit to myself that what I had been looking for, all along was, in fact, a way out; a solution which would present those I loved in a good light, and those whom I cared not for in a bad light.
I admit, looking back, that I had not much altered my strategy once this has become apparent to me. Though, let it be written down as a form of justification for myself that I had at least acknowledged the existence of this profound unease and have, thus, perhaps made a step further into the realm of cognizant self-awareness than most people would be willing to attempt. In any event, these ruminations are only tangential to our narrative and should take their proper place.
Where was I?
Ah, yes. Seven oclock in the morning, a wet street in a rich neighbourhood of Vienna.
There I was; wet, tattered, slightly dirty, biting back yawns and an occasional sneeze in a never-ending sequence (Garent, the lucky fellow, was looking, even under the slowly easing rain, completely well-rested and only a little damp). Frankly, I was at a loss. There were too many dead ends, and not sufficient information to build a full picture upon. And all key persons in the matter seemed to have been struck with an unfortunate case of Dead just before I got my hands on them.
I needed to think, and my head accommodated exponentially less and less thoughts as time passed. In the meantime, though, people were dying. Before I could get to them
I started.
I am going at this from the wrong end! I grabbed at my head and reached for my umbrella.
What?
Im going at it from the wrong end, I repeated, digging the umbrella point into the ground, and hauling myself up to my feet. Then, remembering that Garent was not privy to my thoughts, elaborated. Im chasing Lorenzo and Rostov down, where I should be applying my brain to the problem, and figuring out not where they were last, but where they would be next.
And this just now occurred to you?
Dont be snide, I chided, though there was little strength behind the scolding. The stops we made till now were pretty much inevitable. Until Paris, I didnt even know for certain just what sort of thing Lorenzo is after. As for Vienna
As for Vienna, if they were dead it would all be a moot point anyway.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring down at the wet hem of my skirt and noting the drenched, pitiful condition in which my shirt collar found itself. I looked, I realized ruefully, like a homeless bum whod just crawled out of a dumpster. My hairs wet, heavy weight and the tangles I felt in it when I ran a hand through, only intensified the image. I could only imagine myself the furor in any decent, Teutonic establishment when an apparition of my kind would appear on their doorstep demanding, no less, information about ancient Akkadian artifacts.
I spotted a small café, off of the main street, where the owner was waving a towel over a stove, and two drawn workers were rapidly downing cups of drink. The hasty and sincere explanation that weve just arrived from the airport as well as my rapidly extracted wallet as a demonstration of my ability to fund my short-term stay convinced the woman to be more or less cordial, as well as allow me the use of her spotless bathroom to change, wash and brush my hair into submission.
I want to find out more about this Shubat-Anshar and everything connected to it, I said, thinking out loud as we sat at the small café table. This is our key, Im sure, and the more I know about who did what, the better off well all be. So well go to the university library and see what we can dig up. Most universities tend to follow stuff like that pretty carefully. Sadly, my access as a guest would be pretty limited.
Dont you have someone you know? A professor or something, Garent was dutifully pretending to drink a glass of water.
Sadly, not in the Archaeology department, I grimaced. Besides, the university here doesnt do my kind of Linguistics, and we dont move in the same circles. Never mind, I added hastily, seeing his confusion, simply put, I have no one to go to. But we should head there anyway and see.
That was precisely where I and Garent made our way immediately after I rapidly drained my cup of oversweetened coffee. We walked through the central streets with their famous cafes and baroque architecture, with my running commentary which seemed to bore Garent only mildly and occasional peering at cafeteria front windows where Viennese desserts were strategically placed to entice visitors.
Sofia! Would you like one of those? I was eyeing a large piece of sachertorte, positively dripping with
something
when Garent decided to play teenage brother.
Are you joking? This is packaged diabetes on a plate!
You were staring at it, he accused.
I was not! I grumbled indignantly, stepping rapidly a good two paces away from the glass. I admit, I was a little too close to the pane for comfort
Not that I had my nose sticking to it or anything
well, perhaps only a little, but we really had no time, and the calories, oh, the calories
Sofia, Garent drawled sadistically. Do you like chocolate cake? I never would have guessed.
I blushed furiously. Lets just go.
The library was very
European. Large, vaulted ceiling, unused grand fireplace which seemed to have crawled out of the Master and Margarita and could, with little effort, fit not merely a coffin, but an entire pyramid. The windows gaped hugely, and the light fell through them onto a tile marble, illuminating frescoes and marble adornments. It was sufficiently comfortable to look new, and sufficiently old to manage to pull the grandeur with panache. Like every European palace it elevated ostentatious to an art form and, astonishingly, it worked.
I set up shop with my laptop at one of the tables, and laid out a pen and several sheets of paper, for reference purposes.
Okay, so this is our list of people, all of whom were interested in the temple of Anshar, I tapped the pen on the table rhythmically until one of the people to my side cringed. Then I stopped, embarrassed. Of them, two are right here, in Vienna, our Mr. Auer- Garent winced and I grinned unrepentantly -and this fellow Fischer, who, I think is an employee right here, Would you do me a favour?
Sure.
Go to the reference desk. Ask them if they have a list of the library employees or a directory or something.
Garent decamped. I watched him momentarily, weaving his way through the slowly increasing masses of students and researchers, making his way towards the reference desk. He stood there for a while, then came back, carrying what looked like a sheaf of stapled papers. Here you go.
Thanks, now
I had no opportunity to finish because, uncharacteristically, Garent cut me off. I thought youd want to know, he said, looking at me, and then at the reference desk, that the person over there spoke to Lorenzo yesterday.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter X
In Which Somebody Is Actually Found Alive
And Another Is Not
Fraulein, I leaned on the counter, scanning as though by reflex the rows of titles sitting on the table below, on their way to be returned to the shelves. Youve just helped my young friend over there. Perhaps you can help me also?
Im not much of a thespian; acting never seemed to work for me, somehow. My main critiques involved such words as understated and not sufficiently emotional. I am, however, an absolute professional in that most ingenious art of concealment which Shakespeare defined seek none, conspiracy; hide it in smiles and affability. And I can be no more affable than to a librarian.
Sure, madam. The librarian smiled obligingly, and provided me with the sort of look that anyone whod ever worked customer service of any kind, any kind whatsoever, recognizes as oh, bother. How can I help you?
I waved the registry list at her. Hermann Fischers your boss, isnt he? I have his secretarial phone number, but I really need to talk to him, so can you look up his number for me?
Sorry, but I cant do that, the librarian didnt look particularly regretful. Its the policy.
Ill tell you the truth, I made an embarrassed face which, for me, means looking a little shiftier than usual, Im here on request of a friend of mine, who just was here and, I think, was talking to your boss also. I need to verify something for him. Hey, come to think of it, I added offhandedly, you might remember him; pretty tall, white hair, limps a little?
The girls eyes lit.
I suppressed an internal sigh. Lorenzo, damn his Italian soul, is extremely memorable to persons of the female persuasion. I have once seen a picture of him as a relatively young man and, while never quite managing the all-too-narrow standards of a Hollywood actor, the man had the sort of looks which would make women buzz and twirl around him like a swarm of agitated bees, and fathers lock away their daughters muttering about that handsome devil. Even now, at his advanced age of, thank you very much, a hundred and fourty (going on fifty-one) he could still make heads turn.
Thats right, I remember him. I helped him pick up a manuscript, the librarian was nodding enthusiastically. Apparently Lorenzod had his charm on the on setting. Investigatory work, however, precludes gnashing of teeth and various other visible signs of turning green, and I smiled at the girl who was helpfully pulling out a large phone book. My head was ticking along rapidly, in any case, busily connecting the dots.
This is the one; some Arabic manuscript. That was it, was it? I didnt catch him last night, you see.
Yeah, I think, the librarian frowned. He was looking for that cylinder we were supposed to get from France
Supposed? I blinked, eyeing her sharply. Antiques nowadays didnt just disappear into thin air. They were the affair of the government of several governments oftentimes subject to much diplomacy, caution, severe security protocols and careful handling. They were, in fact, rapidly escalating from museum exhibits to mythical status and proportions. You lost an antique?
We didnt lose it, the girl said indignantly. Its in shipping.
Really? I allowed myself to be duly skeptical, though my heart was pummeling away.
Those damn French, the librarian was reduced into vexed candour. They can never get anything right. Its all a mess. And now with this guy Benveniste dead, and poor Herr Auer dead, half of the Archaeological community in Europe cant find their hands and feet. Here, she plunked a piece of paper on the counter. Hermanns phone number. Though if you want to catch him quickly, you should go up to his office. Hes in now. I nodded my thanks. And say hi to your friend.
I knocked on Fischers door sharply, and, without waiting for a response, stepped in. Fischers office was very
sparse. I am all too used to seeing academic clutter of various shades and degrees; most of my fellow professors keep their office in some gradient of artistic disorganization, perhaps based on the notion that it helps them invent and stimulates their scientific work. My own university office looks like a cross between a mad librarians nightmares and a good housekeepers dreams depending on how far into my creative throes I am at the moment. Fischers office, on the other hand, could feature as an illustration of obsessive compulsive in the OED. It was also ridiculously German, as though the man, aware of his nationality and status, was absolutely determined to live up to it by any means possible. There was, however, no occupant visible.
Herr Fischer?
A rather incongruous pile of office supplies in the back heaved and twitched nervously, before a man in his very advanced seventies,, maybe slightly less advanced eighties, crawled out of it, backing slowly on all fours. What Fischer missed in eccentricity in the office he applied to his own person. Clearly, the man was my husbands soul mate, though he dealt with old paper and not mechanical parts and fusion reactors. He wore a sleeveless vest, and the knees of his pants had distinct marks of dust on them, and were just short enough to reveal a pair of fabulously mismatched socks. He even had the Einstein hair that every decent physicist secretly aspires to. Hello! How can I help you? Uh
The Germans like their titles. I took a deep breath and rattled off all of mine. Frau Doktor-Professor Sofia Rabinovich Im a friend of Herr Mondavi who was here yesterday nice to meet you. I gulped for breath and added in English, And this is Garent.
Ooh
He stared at me in sincere appreciation A lady of worth and experience! A chair was dragged out and presented to me with, dear God, a flourish. Please, grace my office.
Faced with the enthusiastic little antiquarian and the smirking, obviously amused Garent, I helplessly took a seat. The man fussed over me, relieving me almost forcibly of my coat and scarf, and making a show of hanging them on for lack of any better accommodations his office door handle. Then he went to the pile of office supplies to rummage for cups. You must excuse me. My secretary, she came in today. She cleaned my office, put everything in place, now, he stared at me in helpless mirth, I am completely lost.
I laughed despite myself and decided I rather liked the fellow. He was a living death-blow to stereotypes.
After we were both saddled with coffee cups, I prodded the man gently to the subject of our visit again.
Yes, yes. Your friend was here yesterday such a nice young man--
I spewed coffee. Garent pounded me helpfully on the back.
Came in with a reference from Heinrich Auer and picked up the manuscript. We chatted about this sort of thing. Hes a very well-educated young man, they are a rarity nowadays. More coffee was threatening to wind its way up my nose, but I restrained myself, barely.
And that cylinder that never showed up?
Ah, yes, yes. De Sarzecs cylinder. Heinrich was obsessed with it; wanted to see it. I dont think that it has any significance, myself, but Heinrich is our rich patron and generally a very nice man, a pleasure to work with, knows his books.
The thought of de Sarzecs work, even in such friendly company, was sobering. Youve never been involved in that research yourself?
Oh my, no! Im far too busy! Far, far too busy. A whole library, some of it incredibly valuable, to maintain and that secretary of mine misplaced half my preservation materials, he sniffed sadly. De Sarzecs work was a momentary curiousity, nothing more.
I stared at him for a while, mouth slightly open, as the notion finally sank in. The only person in my entire inquiry whom I managed to catch alive, and the only person who has not been directly involved in de Sarzecs work. The idea that this work and its descendants was key wasnt in fact new Id have to be a far greater fool than one could imagine not to make that connection but here was a (pardon me) living, breathing proof of the matter. Whats more, it rather clinched my assumption that, whoever were the people involved in this affair, I must be getting to them first. Now I knew who these people were, at least by deduction.
Herr Fischer, I said, slowly putting my coffee cup on the table. Do you have a contact number for Auers dealer? What was his name? Amann
Oh yes, of course. He gave it to me in case we needed to coordinate some purchase with him directly.
Could you dial it for me, please?
Right now? He blinked, raising bushy gray eyebrows.
If you please.
He dragged out a phone by its cable, and presented it to me on the table. Several minutes longer were spent with him frantically digging through the pile of office stationery and supplies, papers and stubs of pencil in the corner, until, with a sign, he had extracted a large, leather-bound day planner from the top drawer of his desk, and flipped it open. I dialed and pressed the receiver to my ear anxiously, ready, at this point, for anything.
Hello. The voice on the other side of the line was dry and officious but also a little wary.
I must speak with Mr. Thomas Amann, please.
He is not available right now.
I clenched my teeth. Its very important. I must reach him immediately. Is there a home number, or a cell phone? Anything?
I am sorry, but he is not available.
I must insist, I, naturally, insisted. His life may depend on it.
There was a momentary, astonished silence on the other end of the line, then the voice said, coldly. You are too late. Thomas Amann has been found dead with a bullet to the back of his head this morning. Good bye. The receiver clicked.
I dropped the dead receiver back into place and the three of us stared at each other, shocked. Fischer looked frightened; Garent looked uncomfortable.
Herr Fischer, I said quietly. May I strongly advise that you go to the police?
Yes, yes, he was nodding furiously, the jovial expression completely gone from his face. My God, how horrible
how incredibly odd. First Heinrich, now Thomas. Who next?
That is what I must find out. I must know. Who else was involved with this? What names did Auer mention? Or if not him, then Lorenzo. It could be deathly important. Nobody groaned at the inadvertent, awkward pun. No one even noticed.
Bertram, the small, elderly academic allowed finally, rubbing his temples as though his head hurt. Donald Bertram.
I sat there, lightning-struck, then grabbed for the phone. His number!
Fischer rattled it off, flipping through his little notebook furiously, and we held our breaths as the international dial tone rang.
Donald Bertram. The voice on the other end of the line was deep, male and very, very British, aptly matching the name. I exhaled a sigh of profound relief.
Mr. Bertram, I spoke quickly. My name is Sofia Rabinovich, I am a friend of an acquaintance Lorenzo Mondavi.
Ah, yes. How may I help you, madam?
Sir, has he gotten in touch with you, contacted you recently?
Why
yes. He asked me to meet him today.
I gulped. Mr. Bertram, this is very important! People connected to your work have been dying all over Europe. You must be careful! Dont let anybody in your door until I get there, under any circumstances. Do you
Pardon me, I didnt hear you. My doorbell rang. If youll excuse me a moment.
I grabbed at the receiver, willing for the force to transfer through the lines somehow. Mr. Bertram, no! Stop!
There was the rustle of footsteps and other unidentifiable sounds as he retreated out of earshot. I tried one last time. Mr. Bertram!
Then the line went dead.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Chapter XI
In Which A Reunion Goes Unexpectedly And
I dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Oh, hell.
I had a great deal more eloquent and expressive things running through my head, but that is where they stayed. I am not much for swearing, at least not out loud. It is my assumption, always, that if I am incapable of expressing myself in the dozen or so languages I know without lapsing into profanity, then it is time to be silent. I will confess, however, that at that point I had been running through a long and rather elaborate string of Russian and Hebrew with some English thrown in for good measure in the back of my brain.
Fischer looked up at me, scared and stunned. What happened to him?
If he opened the door for the wrong people, I answered, reaching for my coat and scarf off the door handle, he's dead.
We hope that he isn't, Garent added, standing up and grabbing my suitcase before I could ask him to do so. We would be running, and I was completely incapable of handling a load on the run; Garent, bless him, knew it. We're going to try and get to him now. Isn't that right, Sofia?
Oh, yes, I answered fervently. If you want to help your colleague, Herr Fischer, you will do me a favour?
Anything! The flustered academic stared at me with eyes that glittered suspiciously.
Stay away from de Sarzecs work for the time being, no matter the temptation. Its worth more than your life to touch it. I looked at him, willing for the seriousness of my tone to penetrate. I was not usually encouraging of fear tactics, but there was something deeply obscene to the notion of this man sticking his head into the fire. Fischer apparently was one of these individuals rare at all times and in all places; a genuinely nice human being. I did not want him dead.
I wouldnt dream of it, he said, quite fervently. Anything else?
Call in the Luxembourg airport, and get me a rental car.
We left Austria in terrible haste, and without much comment. A hasty taxi ride to the airport, and a short spurt of activity there, then we both, and Garent's little backpack as well as my suitcase, were loaded on the small plane to Luxembourg. I had been rapidly developing a royal migraine, air pressure changes conspiring with sleeplessness and stress to bring me down entirely and, when the stewardess brought us drinks, I had to grip the cup in both hands like a child in order to prevent it from spilling in my awkward, insecure grasp.
Only once, when we were already up in the air, did I turn to Garent with anything like conversation. When the plane took off, and the city underneath receded I commented, staring out the little window, At leas we are out of there.
Garent turned slowly around from busily examining the cloud formations rapidly thickening around our heads. You never let go, do you, Sofia?
History haunts all of us, one way or another, I said in a flat voice that concealed nausea and pain. Some of us it haunts more closely than others.
Well, you didn't seem to take it all that badly, what with the bombing and all.
I stared at him for a while, thinking. Garent was one of the few people in the world who was not fooled by my constant poker face. We've known each other for a long time, and he knew that we all me, Alexander and Lorenzo too each had our own mask. Alexander sported the smile and attitude of a clown, worn and ridden with holes like an old suit. Lorenzo cultivated stoicism in the same careful, tidy way he took care of his hat and duster. Mine was the bland, placid serenity of a well-groomed, polite lady, sprinkled with a touch of irony. It went well with my understated wardrobe and sparse makeup. Therefore, a question like that could only be bait, for me to take or leave. Generally, I would prefer to leave... but there were only the two of us, on a plane full of disinterested strangers.
When I was very young, I said thoughtfully, I read a story about Marie Antoinette, the last queen of France. They said that when she went to the guillotine she had to pass though the door of the cell where she was kept, in the Bastille-- I'd pointed the building out to Garent as a by and by, while in Paris, and he nodded in remembrance. The story said that she had opened her head on the low plinth, because she refused to bow it. So she went to be beheaded like that; forehead bleeding, but head high and back straight.
That seems like way too much effort to put in just so that other people wouldn't know.
Perhaps, I said steadily, but it is well worth it because I would know. If I must go to the gallows, this is how I will do it.
We flew the rest of the way in silence, with Garent napping, and me chewing through migraine pills like candy.
I have very fleeting impressions of Luxembourg in general, and of the airport in particular. Like all airports in the world, it was completely sterile of all local flavour, and had signs in English, French and German. Like all little European countries Luxembourg has three official languages, and makes use of four or five to conduct its daily business, though the notion should hardly disconcert me. The pilot, I remember, landed well; though I suppose if he had not done so, he might have overflown the borders altogether, sticking the nose of the plane into Germany, Belgium or France.
I had never gone through an airport faster in my life. Snagging my suitcase and hurrying through the long walkways out to the exit I thanked the deities of history that the EU had done away with passports, customs inspections and other nuisances beyond the details of basic security which kept passengers paying and planes off the ground. Fischer, octogenarian or no, was as good as his word at least as far as the rental car was concerned. He had done me one better, in fact, and left the full address of Mr. Donald Bertram (age fifty-seven, citizenship dual) at the counter for me as well. Fifteen minutes later I was zooming down the highway from the airport to the northern exit of Luxembourg City, the GPS barely keeping up with the speed of the turns.
Let me put something firmly down on the record. I am a cautious enough driver, as such things go living in a city where random objects, as well as flying heroes, in the middle of the road are a real hazard, makes caution an admirable habit and usually I much prefer the passenger seat, with my husband occupying the wheel. But I got my license in Russia, and Russian driving is the ultimate survival of the fittest test; if you're not fit to dodge anything bigger and heavier than you, don't blame anybody for dying in a car accident. And then I moved to California.
Basically, to make a long story short, when I absolutely have to, I drive like a fiend.
Right. Turn. Three, Hundred. Meters. I refrained from tossing the GPS, with its annoying, mechanic voice, out the window, instead dodging a stodgy Luxembourgian vehicle which crawled along the road at an indecent hundred kilometers, shifting momentarily down to take the turn. Bertram, a man of means who had, apparently, liked his quiet, lived well outside the city of Luxembourg in his own private house. A nice thing all around, except when someone attempts murder on you in broad daylight. I slowed down marginally when the map on the GPS zoomed in to show individual little roads, in order to better examine the environment and present an innocuous facade.
The place was deeply green, gently rural, breathed more money than I make in a year, and the houses were literally miles apart. I rolled down my window, and peered out, trying to spot incongruous vehicles. Lorenzo won't be happy to see me.
Assuming that he didn't just go on a murdering spree, Garent unclenched his hand from the door handle he didn't comment about my driving, in fact, he seemed pleased by it, but instinct cannot be helped, -why do you say that?
I shrugged ruefully, and slowly, soundlessly pulled the small rental into the smooth parking lot of Bertram's house. He never is.
The place seemed quiet. There were no scorched marks in front, and the garden was well-manicured and exceptionally well-maintained; the garden of a man who liked his plants, and had time to dedicate to them. The house was two-storied, with large front windows slightly tinted to prevent too much exposure to sunlight. I could not see beyond them into the living room, though they reflected my haggard face, and Garent's calm one, quite nicely.
All right, I murmured softly. Head up, back straight, and headed toward the door.
I pressed the handle slowly, and the front door swung open with a small, almost nonexistent squeak. I froze nervously at the sound and frowned in concentration, trying to listen. There were noises from within moving furniture, heavy footsteps, someone spoke briefly over a rush of water, though I could not identify the voice. I leaned my umbrella on the wall carefully, and slid out of my shoes, standing on the wooden floor in my stockings only. Behind me, light mist suddenly obscuring him in a small cloud, Garent ghosted.
The entire place was a shambles. Someone had, with careful methodical, silent aptitude, gone over every possible nook and cranny in it. The bookshelves were practically emptied out, and piles of books threatened to spill over with a clutter from where they lay which was practically everywhere. The couch pillows were torn off their spots and opened, then tossed. Someone has methodically pulled drawer after drawer of the writing desk, shuffled through papers then overturned the drawers onto the floor. Large, dirty dog tracks lay across the honey-coloured floorboards, leading from the salon further inside. The entire place looked as if, in the night, it had been visited by a silent but not at all neat branch of the KGB.
Follow the tracks, I murmured almost inaudibly. Garent nodded, and the cloud grew thicker.
We tiptoed across the floor, to where the sounds of people and things were louder and louder, and stopped in front of the door. The light from the large veranda windows illuminated long, afternoon shadows. I rested my hand on the handle for a moment, and looked at Garent with an eyebrow raised. From within his mist, he shrugged slightly. I pressed the handle slowly and opened the door.
The room beyond was barricaded with overturned chairs and desks. The window, much smaller, in the vein of a regular office, was broken, and the shutters on it were drawn. The glass from the windowpane lay in a wide semicircle underneath the sill. The smell of blood was sharp and thick, and bullet casings were scattered across the floor. In the middle of it all rested the body of what must have been Donald Bertram, mouth open, torso covered with large splotches of red. Above it, Rostov Kushan grinned his cold little grin at me and his young brother, Victor, was blinking in astonishment.
What is this? I said softly.
It doesn't matter now, madam. Lorenzo was a little off to the side, standing in the shadow by a bookcase. He pointed a gun directly at my head. Remain still, or you will be shot.
END OF PART I
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
[u]Part II: ...Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,...[u]
Chapter XII
In Which A Letter Is Received And A Plan Is Rescued
It is with some difficulty that I attempt to explain the events that led to such a preposterous and fantastic outcome. The beginning of the causal chain eludes me even at this time, after all the facts and persons involved have been brought to my attention, so perhaps it will suffice for my explanation to begin with my own personal involvement. Even if I were to extrapolate upon my hypotheses of the origin of this disaster, I would begin the dissertation in the same fashion, so the point is, perhaps, moot.
While there are numerous factors that led to my involvement, the one that stands the best for the beginning of this narration is the reception of an electronic letter. I am sure that the fact of my ownership of such an address will come as a surprise to many, who see me as a wizened old sorceror, a relic of a lost century, not realizing that while my manner of dress and various habits are still a mix of the styles I grew up with, I have had little problems adapting to the modern era. It never ceases to amaze me how much these people imagine me to follow some esoteric stereotype promoted by poor novels and dismal films, even when these same people have seen me operate Crey and Council computer systems, and mostly I do not bother shattering their illusions on this matter.
Or on any matter, for people who make assumptions about my limitations are people who are not a threat to my person. I take the advice of the Strategist, who says Even though you are competent, appear to be incompetent. Though effective, appear to be ineffective.
The letter itself was part of a long running conversation between myself and one of my many business contacts in this case, a Donald Bertram of Luxembourg. Mister Bertram was inquiring after an early 19th century journal detailing archaeological findings in Persia, as well as to a small manuscript from the Arabias, circa 550 Anno Domini. Sadly, neither of these items were currently in my possession the latter having been sold to a collector a short time before while the former was acquired by a rival dealer but I found myself somewhat intrigued by the query. The journal itself was no special affair, being simply a collection of old academic articles and anecdotes that have yet to be indexed and reproduced for the world to see in this Information Age, but the manuscript was very specific and very esoteric.
And very famous in some very narrow circles as the only post-Assyrian mention of the existence of the Sumerian Temple of Anshar, the temple whose destruction by its patron sky-god ushered in an age of drought and climate change bringing the downfall of the Akkadian empire and plunging the Middle East into a Dark Ages that would last centuries. Skeptics and academics doubt its existence, and certainly any theological effects, but the less sane and more knowledgeable believe it to be the burial site of a theurgic tradition capable of controlling global weather, ending famine, bringing immortality to kings and priests, and, as is all too common, prophecy.
Naturally, my curiosity was piqued.
Admittedly, it takes very little to entice the inquisitive parts of my nature, especially when archeology and metaphysics are involved, but I am normally a man of reserve and patience, and don't find myself overwhelmed by the desire to pursue every potentially useful scrap of information that passes before my eyes. And, at first, I had no such intentions regarding Mister Bertram, instead I sent him my regretfully unhelpful reply and a short inquiry as to the nature of his search.
He replied back shortly with a lengthy response that I did not read until that evening, as I had a thoroughly enjoyable and diverting day reading speculative fiction novels and continuing my studies of Linear B.
I found Bertram's response both surprising and illuminating. These two items were of such great importance to him that he desired to bring me into his conspiracy, seeing as how I knew where they both were and had a relatively high prospect of success in acquiring them from their current owners, if only on a temporary basis. I do not wish to duplicate the entirety of his letter here, but the concise version is that he was wishing to complete the work of the late Prof. Jean Luc de Sarzec, whose illustrious career ended so tragically with an ill-timed stroke this past year. Bertram was able to get his hands on a copy of de Sarzac's notes and a draft of an academic paper he was writing, both discussing new findings at a dig near Tell Telloh, Iraq, including a clay cylinder that he believed was describing the location of the Ansharian Temple I mentioned previously.
The importance of such a finding dug hard and sharp into my brain, and I felt compelled to assist him in his endeavor. I immediately sent messages out to the owners of the two articles he sought, requesting an audience to discuss their temporary acquisition, and began to scour the Internet for all information I could find about Professor de Sarzec's work. It was later that night that I learned that, after his death, many of the items had been donated to the Louvre and, wonder of wonders, they had thoroughly documented electronic images of the pieces, all available for viewing.
What the modern lacks in manners and gentility, it makes up for in convenience. Or attempts to, at the least; its rate of success varies, seemingly inversely proportional to how often I encounter other people and how many of them at a time. There are, of course, exceptions to this misanthropic view of modern humanity, but they appear to be as anachronistic as I - either literally, like the near immortal John Hale, or figuratively, like my neighbor and confidante, Sofia Rabinovich, who factors a great deal in what comes later.
These pursuits and inquiries became a normal part of my routine for the rest of the week, interspersed between studies both magical and mundane, until the Louvre published a translation of one of the tablets from Tell Telloh, rendering it as follows:
[ QUOTE ]
... and when Ur-Doma returned from Shubat-Anshar, he brought neither syrup nor wine nor draught for the seers. Iyarum the magistrate accused Ur-Doma of taking the shekels for himself, but Ur-Doma showed him the shekels and lo, [they] were all there. Ur-Doma then said ... the orchards were gone, and the temple had been destroyed, that Anshar himself, blessed be he, had brought lightning and thunder and great winds in his righteous anger... [long break due to destroyed section] Fear of King Naram-Sin, of the four quarters, drove Iyarum towards the sun, to the place of Shubat-Anshar, to find the draught for the seers and the gem of Etnekhsa, the protection of Anshar. After twenty days and twenty nights, Iyarum returned, told of his failure to King Naram-Sin, of the four quarters, and fell on his sword...
[/ QUOTE ]
I recognized Shubat-Anshar almost immediately for its similarity to Shubat-Enlil, which was the name of an Assyrian capital and meant the residence of the god Enlil in Akkadian; Shubat-Anshar, then, was the city home of Anshar, and a likely candidate for the temple that Bertram and I sought. My mind lingered on this draught and this gem, and I thought of a long standing story about the end of the Akkadian Empire, known as the Curse of Akkad. According to it, Naram-Sin brought the wrath of Enlil down upon Akkad when his oracles told him to attack the city of Nippur and sack the Mountain Temple there.
Could these be connected? Perhaps his oracles made such a vast mistake because the source of this drought had disappeared, leaving them with no more prophecy, no more guidance from their gods. Or perhaps it was really this Gem of Etnekhsa that was behind it all, a magical artifact that kept the climate stable and fertile, and without which, led to the massive climate change that brought an end to age.
If any of this was true, and my suspicions were certainly leading this way, then the temple was housing one or two very powerful magical artifacts. Ones which I daren't let into anyone else's hands. Not that I am a greedy individual or have an absolute thirst for such power (and nor will I deny that I have certain tendencies in that direction, for such is the curse that all seekers of knowledge and magic have), but if Bertram were to succeed in unearthing this, he might be unleashing untold dangers upon the planet or letting such things fall into the hands of those who would abuse them. So I made a resolution to find Shubat-Anshar on my own, and to get to it before anyone else.
Then I went to look for Rostov Kushan.
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Chapter XIII
In which books are scattered and commitments are made
I had suddenly found myself planning what could possibly turn into a large scale excavation in the middle of Iraq, and trying to do such quietly and secretly. Even in such a service oriented society as today's, such an endeavor is difficult and requires utmost care and planning. Luckily, I have already been involved in similar efforts in the distant past, so I had some inkling of what to expect; sadly, this knowledge led me to believe that I would need a large team of men and an expert of such affairs to lead it.
That would, actually, be the easy part: I already knew of a trustworthy individual, and sent out a small missive asking to meet with him later to discuss it.
The more difficult task would be in keeping the regional government from interfering with my dig, and remaining safe from bandits and zealots and black market artifact hunters from deciding to raid and pillage my little camp. While I would be certainly able to deal with any minor infractions and attempts on my life, I've held to the philosophy that if I ever need to actively defend myself, I'm already doing something wrong threats should be dissuaded from even attempting in the first place.
And that is why I made a very brief telephone call to Rostov Kushan.
To the general public eye, Mister Kushan is a man with a very discreet and successful shipping agency an expert of exports. His shipping agency isn't successful in that it makes a lot of money on the contrary, I'm under the impression it hemorrhages it, only drawing just enough money to keep the government from being suspicious; no, it is successful in its primary purpose of providing an elaborate cover to explain why he suddenly needs to be in Pakistan or the Congo at a moment's notice. For those who are more familiar with the seedier side of life, Rostov Kushan is a man who will take a job, any job, and accomplish it, so long as said job is the kind that is accomplished via a liberal application of overwhelming force. He is a top-class mercenary, and the kind of metaphorical muscle that would allow me to move throughout hostile territory without distractions.
There are yet other sides to Rostov Kushan, some inherited, some purchased, but that is not relevant at this point.
Kushan and I are something between close acquaintances and distant friends, co-workers and friends-of-a-friend during my brief stay in Port Oakes. He, like many of the people I came to know in that part of the world, came to my attention through his strange relationship with Hale, and we regularly crossed paths as we were both affiliated with the same loose organization of mercenaries.
Still are, I suppose, as I never submitted any sort of official resignation and periodically receive strange and cryptic attempts at newsletters from one of its more disturbing members.
Whereas I had ostensibly retired from such endeavors (having long since earned enough money to support my meager lifestyle), his schemes were only growing larger and more complicated. I had no doubt that he would consider my job offer to be nothing but minor little diversion to his booming business, but I assumed he would join it if I offered enough money and a nice archaeological trip.
Sadly, he was unavailable to be reached or so his secretary told me and I left a short message for him on his voicemail:
I have a small expedition for which I require your expert services as a bodyguard. The matter is temporally urgent, so I request an offer immediately.
I did not bother leaving my name; he would not need it to find me, for he is rather skilled in the magical college of Divination, and I was not currently warded from such traces. Even still, I was surprised to get a knock on my door the following morning, and even more so to find standing on my threshold, in addition to Rostov Kushan himself, a short, lanky teenager.
Whereas Rostov Kushan is known for his responsible, albeit caustic, manner, Victor is thought of and treated as some sort of anthropomorphic kitten: he is young, energetic, easily distracted, and something of a serious danger to those around him without any comprehension of such himself. He only just recently reached his age of majority, and normally the elder Kushan tried quite hard to shelter his younger brother from the more dangerous life even going so far as to convince him that he was nothing but an accountant (much to the amusement of those who know the truth).
Seeing the two of them together for what would explicitly be a mercenary job was unexpected.
I looked between the two of them for a brief moment, then took a step back, waving for them to enter. The Brothers Kushan. I did not expect you. I didn't specify whether I meant that I did not expect both of them, as opposed to one, or whether I did not expect them at this time. Of course, I intended both meanings at once.
Well, you know, Lorenzo, we just happened to be in the area, the elder brother replied, and thought we might drop in. Is this a bad time?
I did not bother responding to his poor joke I never do and simply remained frozen in my gesture of welcome. They took the hint and entered, openly looking around at my humble abode.
Rostov Kushan shook his head as he lazily wandered to the leather chairs that, along with a few cherrywood tables and a large carpet, constituted my salon. Not exactly a life of style and-
OhheybookshaveyougottenanythingnewdoyoumindifIgol ookthanks! His brother interrupted as per his usual lack of manners and highly accelerated manner. Like a rather large subset of metahumans, young Kushan had incredible speed and reflexes, and when he was not in utmost control of himself (most of the time) he had a tendency to speak and move at lightning speeds. His awareness of time was such that he often complained about the normal world moving too slowly, and it is astonishing that he does not also age at an accelerated rate.
He was in a particularly distracted mode of thought this time, as he did not bother to wait for my response before darting to the nearest bookshelf and thumbing the spines of multiple books as I watched in tightly concealed horror. While I find his infatuation with the printed word refreshing in the modern world, it is his tendency to grab multiple novels, seemingly at random, and then forget to put them away that sets the hairs on the back of my neck on edge. If I'm particularly unlucky, he'll remember to do so, but put them back in the wrong place.
I often find myself rearranging my shelves after his visits.
Rostov Kushan stared after his brother for a moment, then took his seat. He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head and asked, rather bluntly, So, how many demons do I have to kill?
No, nothing like that this time. I ignored the audible disappointment originating from my bookshelf and explained further. It is a simple artifact hunt, Kushan. I must first track down a handful of individuals and items in Europe, and then make a short jaunt to southern Iraq, where we will, hopefully, dig up the long lost and hidden remains of a temple of Sumer and Akkad.
He peered at me over the odd ruby-colored glasses he wore regularly. The skepticism was obvious.
There is some possibility of significant danger, I admitted, again ignoring the cries from the distant younger brother, in that the owners of some of the items are greedy men who may require some convincing, and I foresee problems with the natives of the dig site. Furthermore, since this is quite possibly a temple containing magical artifacts and buried by a jealous god who wished to keep these things out of the hands of men, there is a chance that we will have to deal with angry Sumerian traps, curses, and gods.
Itoldyouthiswouldbeawesome! Victor Kushan shouted, suddenly appearing on the sofa and leaving behind a small pile of books on the floor. I leveled a somewhat irritated gaze on him, and he paused slightly, before adding, So when are we going?
I still didn't have an explanation for his presence, so I ignored his question and turned my gaze to the elder brother.
What can I say? I told him you were hiring me for a job, and he insisted on coming. I didn't think you'd have a problem; that would be silly. He grinned at me, revealing his overly long and pointy canines, a feature of his whose raison d'etre has not yet been given to me. I have several guesses to be made on the matter, most of them having to do with the fact that he has the obvious metaphysical mark of having been claimed by a demon.
When I was referring to the purchased side of Rostov Kushan, this is what I meant. I had not been told the whole story, or any story at all, but at some point in the past this mercenary made a full blown Faustian bargain with a demonic entity. What benefits he gained are not known to me, either, but it wouldn't surprise me if some of his mystical abilities and near invulnerability (well, besides the part already explained by his huge investment in cybernetic upgrades) were part of the purchase plan.
He was right, though, I had no major problem with leaving young Victor out of the trip. He was smart, when his higher brain functions weren't being overridden by his lower body functions, and more than capable of handling himself in a dangerous situation, having both dabbled in some of the same magicks as his brother and developed full-blown pyrokinesis. My reticence stemmed from the simple fact that he had a habit of getting on one's nerves, and I was not sure that even my fortitude could withstand his presence for a lengthy period of time.
I gave him a long look and then a small shrug. I see no harm in it. A thought struck my mind and I added quickly: But I'm only paying for you.
Payment? From such a good friend? He waved his hand in the air dismissively. I would never dare to ask. Will that be by check, wire transfer, or gold bullion?
I ignored his jest, satisfied by his tacit agreement to the job. Rostov Kushan was the best kind of mercenary: the kind that stays bought. His purchasable loyalty was such that rumor went that he would be the only man in existence to fully intend to fulfill his part of a bargain with a denizen of the Lower Planes. While this seems like a surprising and foolish endeavor to the uninitiated, I find it keeping with a rather more intelligent way of thought, like that which led one of the greatest French philosophers to proclaim, when asked on his deathbed by a priest to renounce Satan, Now is no time to be making enemies.
Sowhenarewe- The young motormouth halted, shifted into a more sensible gear. So when are we going?
In a few days. I actually hadn't decided on that, myself, but years of experience leading and conning men had long gotten a hold on my behavior and I did not show anything but certainty as I answered. It was a completely true statement, of course, because I made the decision and committed myself to that course of action simultaneously with my declaration. I even had a good reason why. I have sent out letters to the targets of my inquiry, and I should get answers back within the next few days.
Few days? He gaped, seemingly unable to comprehend the necessary patience. Couldn't you just, like, fire an email or something?
It is a rather simple thing with multiple benefits, Mister Kushan. My tone slipped into the lecturing standard that had become something of a norm when dealing with the youth of the area. An email can be lost, forgotten, filtered as spam, or replied to with a form letter. A handwritten letter, not even typed, carries a certain gravitas that people feel they must reply to. Also, it puts them in a certain state of mind regarding my requests, where they take it as far more serious and official than they might otherwise. I allowed myself a small smile. It also makes them think that I am being leisurely and that the matter is not of any importance or hurry, which will leave them off guard when I arrive at their doorsteps next week.
Oh. Okay then.
Having satisfactorily gotten the business out of the way, I then proceeded to offer the two of them access to my supply of fine liquors, of which they both partook, and made a passing attempt at small talk, during which Victor acted stiffer than usual and Rostov spent the entire time grinning at his younger brother I made a mental note that there might be something going on between the two of them, but said nothing, for it would be impolitic of me to pry. I played the good host and suggested they stay for dinner, but they had plans and left shortly; I had very little in the way of food in my house at the time, so I was relieved by this turn of events.
As predicted, I received my responses within the following handful of days, and telephoned the Kushans to inform them that travel was near.
Then I wrote a short note to Madam Rabinovich, asking if she would be so kind as to take care of my estate during my short trip. Normally, I would have asked her to come with me on endeavours such as this, especially since she and her husband both share my interests in history and archaeology, but a pair of injuries sustained recently have left her convalescing in her apartment, under strict orders to remain inactive. Madam Rabinovich is not the kind of person to follow doctors' instructions and would be thoroughly impossible to convince otherwise. If I told her in person, she would have asked questions and gotten suspicious, so I wrote a letter (hoping that she will simply mark my avoidance of a phone call as an eccentricity) and dropped it at their apartment as I went off to meet the Kushans at the small airfield where they kept a plane waiting for me.
Our first stop would be Paris; I needed to get a closer look at Professor De Sarzec's relics, regardless of what the Louvre's staff had to say about it.
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Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
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Chapter XIV
In which artifacts are inspected and networks are compromised
The journey to Paris was long and uneventful. As is par for the course, I kept mostly to myself and was left thankfully undisturbed, allowing me to spend time reading and attempting to get a good night's rest. I had been worried that the loquacious young Victor would pester me, but he was thoroughly distracted by some small electronic gadget with many buttons. I voluntarily broke the silence only upon our entering French airspace so that we could discuss our first stop.
Paris was substantially closer to my memories of it than most of the cities of Europe. It weathered the occupation by Germany rather well and I'm told it was left mostly untouched by Allied bombers, as the Germans had very little infrastructure there and its march into modernity has been in lock step with an eye to preserving and maintaining its cultural heritage. Many of the landmarks remained, though significantly cleaner than when I last visited, which is something I could say for the city in general.
Victor Kushan, for his part, was thoroughly enjoying the flight in, and spent some time pointing out the window and identifying those items which many feel they are obligated to visit while coming to Paris especially the Eiffel Tower. It then dawned on me that he had never been to Paris or the Louvre, and the lack of either (the latter, in particular) constituted a serious hole in the education of a young man. Paris was, after all, one of the great cultural centers of the world, and the Louvre one of the greatest museums; to live without fully partaking in either of them would be a travesty.
I made a mental note to make some time for a small tour around our visit with Mssr. Benveniste, the curator in charge of the relics.
This turned out to be time that we would freely have, as the curator was otherwise engaged when we first arrived at the Musée du Louvre. Out of all the sites in the city, this is the one that had changed the most, having expanded its collection significantly since my last visit, and having remodeled several times, most notably at the entrance. I could not help but smirk at the glass pyramid that stood, majestic but short, in the center of the courtyard and served as the passage by which one arrived in the main building of the Louvre itself. It was, I had to admit, a rather ingenious way to present the merger of distant past and immediate present, both time periods where simple and elegant geometry ruled the public consciousness (a sharp distinction from the first half of my life, where extravagance and density of detail were paramount).
The works themselves were as impressive as ever, and in many cases, even more so, and I found myself marveling at the advancement of restoration science: works that had previously been dull and worn under layers of aged varnish were now bright and full of the contrast that the artists had originally intended. Admittedly, though, I spent less time on these paintings and more time viewing the sculptures and antiquities, especially the Egyptian and Near Eastern departments, which had grown extensively since my last visit.
I found the presence of the Greek, Etruscan, and Roman department as unsettling as I did when I first visited it, for I can't help but feel that these items belong not in a museum in France, but in Italy. Like all my Italian countrymen, I have a good deal of attachment to the ancient civilizations of my geographical past, and it remains a thorn in my side to have so many other peoples lay claim to my cultural heritage. In my more hotheaded youth, before I was tempered by war and education, this would have driven me to some form of anger and spite, but at present, is merely a minor annoyance.
Yes, I am aware of the hypocrisy of the previous statements: that I complain about Italian relics being stored far away while I'm busy pursuing relics of another country for my own purposes, and lo! - even make a small fortune off of dealing in antiquities. I will freely admit that this attachment is not particularly egalitarian of me and, frankly, I have no excuses or apologies. For one, many countries in the Middle East and Africa can not be trusted to safeguard their own cultural history, having noticeable track records of destroying such finds, especially if they are religiously unsuitable; for two, I see nothing wrong in my behavior. It is a conceit of the modern era to consider oneself above and immune to ethnocentric, patriotic, and nationalist behavior, even though not a single person on this planet actually is. Humans are social creatures, by necessity and instinct involved in a myriad variety of communities and hierarchies, ranging from their family and their neighborhood, to their cultural heritage and country, and as wide as biosphere itself. The denial of this is an erosion of the human essence, and a danger to the growth of our society.
I feign no such idiocies.
Regardless of interest and involvement in our observation of the items of humanity's past, we had schedule to keep and regrouped that afternoon. We quickly made our way to the administrative area and obligingly noted our presence at the front desk with the requisite signatures (though I can hardly count Kushan the Younger's meandering scrawl as language). After a short wait, during which Victor tried unsuccessfully to catch the eye of the thin and attractive young secretary while Rostov eyed him with something between amusement and disdain, we were ushered to the office of Monsieur Claude Benveniste.
He was less than enthused to see me in person.
Monsieur Mondavi, did you not receive my letter? He sounded exasperated. This wasn't an altogether unusual state of affairs, as Monsieur Benveniste had always, in my experience, been an incredibly high strung individual. He was the kind of man who kept his office tidy and orderly, with his degrees, certificates, and accolades hung in thin frames on the wall. Anything that did not go according to a plan or schedule set a day in advance bothered him a terrible failing to have in the chaos of the modern era.
I did. I added a slight lightness to my tone to indicate that his letter was of no importance. I was hoping that I could view the objects in person, so that my intrusion would not cause any delay in their study.
He snorted. You should know better than that. He raised a stubby finger, stained at the tip from his long-standing smoking habit. For one, you are a dealer, not an academic, so your presence is unnecessary and hard to explain to the administrators. He raised a second finger. And for two, several of the objects have been sent away for their study and restoration, so I could not show them to you even if I were willing to abrogate our rules on your behalf.
Including the cylinder? I was dismayed that I may have come all this way for nothing. Well, not exactly nothing, since a trip to the Louvre is always worth the time, but the last thing I needed was to waste valuable time chasing these artifacts across Europe when someone else might already be digging in Iraq.
Especially the cylinder, monsieur, he replied matter-of-factly, sounding slightly annoyed. As you well know, many sections of it are disfigured so as to be unreadable, but there are scientific methods to recover the lost text and reconstruct its original appearance.
And where were they sent? I asked, perhaps a little too insistently.
Suddenly, Monsieur Benveniste eyed me with a look of suspicion, then let his gaze wander over to the Brothers Kushan, who had done their best to look both intimidating and unobtrusive, as proper bodyguards should. Why do you want to know?
Obviously, I wish to pursue the artifacts and will entreat the institution to allow me to examine them. I sighed, realizing that I had pushed beyond the boundaries of the business relationship that I had cultivated with the curator over the last few years. I had hoped to let as little of what was going on out into the public as possible, but it appeared that I would need to elaborate further in order to placate his suspicions. Yes, a client of mine is intrigued by Monsieur De Sarzec's work and has hired me to authenticate it and provide a detailed enough duplication that he may continue it in his stead.
Ah ha, I knew it! His voice rose triumphantly and he pointed an accusatory finger. Well, you will just have to go back to Monsieur Bertram and tell him that he will have to wait. Monsieur De Sarzec's works were donated to the Louvre, and the Louvre will see his work continued. His voice lowered darkly. Archeology is a cutthroat, competitive field, Monsieur Mondavi, and the discovery will be ours.
I retreated from his office, perturbed. I had not mentioned Bertram's name, but the curator knew that he was my unnamed client. It looks like I wasn't the only person Bertram had asked about the artifacts, and chances are he'd tried to get his hands on them himself and, only in failing that, did he come to me. Acquiring the items from the ignorant would have been easy, but the stars were against me.
I was slightly annoyed with my client over this: if he had disclosed the nature and constitution of his previous communiques, then I would have approached Benveniste differently.
That went rather less than well, I noted to the Brothers Kushan afterwards, as we stood in the lobby. The objects are no longer here, but we don't know where they went. Mister Benveniste is opting to remain unhelpful.
We could remove his choice in the matter, Rostov replied, grinning wickedly. I admit that I had considered the matter myself, but I found the approach distasteful. Not that I am above using torture to get the information I need, but that it seemed an inelegant solution to a rather simple problem. I would rather not pursue the brutish route unless it is the most fruitful. At the moment, we were beneath suspicion, and any harm caused to the curator would make the entire endeavor more complicated.
It didn't matter though, because Victor gleefully grinned at us and added, Or we could just go to Vienna.
We gave him quizzical looks, to which he held up his PDA and waved it in the air.
These guys really need to hire some real IT security people, the whole network is easier to get into than the pants of a catgirl. He pointed at some of the text on the screen. They've got a record of a request from the University of Vienna, who offered to analyze the stuff discretely. It was shipped to them a short bit ago.
Rostov chuckled, but I remained silent, somewhat discontent. A short time ago, I tried to obtain the Arabic manuscript mentioning the temple of Anshar, but was outbid by one Thomas Amman from Switzerland, an artifact broker whom I have butted heads with numerous times over the last few years. He purchased the item on behalf of a client of his in Vienna, a noted archaeological authority and patron of the University of Vienna named Heinrich Auer. Because of this, I was already planning to visit Vienna next.
I am the kind of person who finds all coincidences suspicious, and in this case, it was incredibly likely that Herr Auer was involved in the university's acquisition of the artifacts. This would imply that he was aware of its significance no doubt in part to Mister Bertram's lack of discretion while pursuing the artifacts himself and had every intent to find Shubat-Anshar first.
Yes, yes... I replied quietly. We should go to Vienna. Time is suddenly against us.
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Chapter XV
In Which Snails Are Demeaned and Defended
While locations like the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower may be iconic within the City of Lights, the real bastions of French culture are the numerous restaurants offering the latest and greatest of fine dining. While neglecting to visit the Louvre might be a travesty, not taking the time to partake of rich food and carefully aged wines would be a crime against humanity.
I get it, Rostov Kushan rolled his eyes, you're hungry.
Also, I gestured towards the velvet skyline, it is rather late and Austria is ahead of us; I'd rather not call upon Mister Auer in the middle of the night. That would be most ungracious of us.
What're you convincing us for, Lorenzo? You're the one running this show. He peered at me, calculating. He had the predatory look on his face that always came along with some biting sarcasm or uncomfortable insight into the nature of the recipient, often with a pun (though not nearly as groan-worthy as those concocted in his younger brother's mind).
I raised a hand to preempt his unnecessary psychoanalysis. Yes, yes, I'm sure I am just projecting onto you my own doubts and in convincing you, I am also convincing myself. I am, in fact, hungry, I admitted, with the tone of someone making a great sacrifice.
Did you hear that, Vic? He elbowed his brother in the side. Tall, dark, and inscrutable here might actually be human!
I eat, therefore I am? Victor Kushan posited, trying to hide the fact that his brother might have just bruised his ribs. I'm sure that'll come to bite him later.
I repressed a groan and asked Mister Oxford one of Rostov's hired thugs and our chauffeur to find us a good hotel. He silently obliged, working the car's GPS unit to retrieve a list, and in a relatively short time (as short as things can be in Parisian traffic) we had placed our bags in our rooms and were planning the rest of the evening.
Number one on the agenda: fine dining.
This is crazy... Victor announced as we were being seated in the restaurant that had been most recommended by the head clerk of the hotel. I wasn't sure whether he meant the magnificent chandeliers, the ornate glass sculptures that sat underneath them, or the vibrant paintings that hung on the walls. This is way nicer than anything we have in the Isles...
Rostov snorted, echoing my own sentiments on the matter. At least, not any that aren't run by the mafia or worse... He gestured back over his shoulder. And the guy playing at the piano isn't being blackmailed by the owner, and the lounge singer isn't hired out as an escort after the show's over.
Well, you can't be too certain, especially on the blackmail, I conceded, but that tells you more of the failings of Isle society than it does the grandeur of the French dining experience. You won't truly know it until you've let your tastebuds be assaulted by dishes both sinful and divine.
Can we go without the poetry? Victor asked, pretending to look nauseated.
Only if you hold back on the puns, I retorted wickedly.
He gave me a face. Not worth it.
I barked some fake laughter and waved the waitress over to read us the specials of the evening. After some thought, some suggestions of my own, and much debate, orders were made. The appetizers arrived shortly, and the younger Kushan quickly let it be known that he was unhappy with my suggestions for food.
Snails? Victor looked at me with disgust. Why?!
Why not? I wielded the tongs and fork with relish. Escargot is a favorite of mine, and a delicacy that I have not had a chance to partake of since the '30s. They're simply mollusks, like clams or oysters.
I tried to coax him further (How can you come to Paris and not try escargot, at least once?) and even Rostov joined in (It just slides right down your throat; it doesn't wiggle too much!) but he would have nothing of it. Victor spent the entire time poking at his oh-so-adventurous beef steak and mashed potatoes and wondering aloud if he could find a place that served tacos. At least Rostov had the good sense to choose the classic veal dish, blanquette de veau.
I am not, by nature, a social person, so I spent more of the meal basking in the myriad flavors presented by my stuffed peppers and interesting side dish of broiled asparagus than I spent in conversation. The Brothers Kushan chatted amongst themselves mostly, discussing a myriad of things that I, frankly, didn't pay much attention to. I, instead, found my thoughts drawn back to the Akkadian Empire and the lost Temple of Anshar.
The Akkadians themselves were an interesting anomaly, a blip on the radar of history that came from nowhere and conquered one of the greatest powers of the time, the Empire of Sumer. The man behind it all, Sargon of Akkad, had an origin cloaked in mystery, with numerous myths explaining his birth and rise to kingship in Kish. He swiftly and efficiently conquered most of Mesopotamia, introducing change to a land that had seen three thousand years of rule based in the city-states of Ur and Lagash. A mere two hundred years later, the Akkadian Empire collapsed with the return of Sumer, which also lasted a few short centuries under the constant attack from its neighbours before finally falling to the rising Babylonia.
Oddly enough, even though the Sumerian culture and language began well before the Akkadian and was still in use for various religious practices for millenia after the empire's fall, the Sumerians fell to the wayside, the Akkadians usurping their heritage. The Akkadan language would go on to be the earliest known Semitic language and would become supplanted by its cousin, Aramaic, while the Sumerian language virtually disappeared with no known linguistic relatives a language isolate, as Madam Rabinovich would call it.
But while the Akkadians thoroughly supplanted the Sumerians in language, government, and all aspects of day-to-day life, there was one area that remained: religion. The gods and priests and temples were all adopted, and the language and writings remained in a borrowed, static state, similar to the Catholic use of Latin long after the world stopped using it. This had actually lent the Akkadians a sort of temporary legitimacy: the gods themselves had changed allegiance and were behind Sargon's numerous swift victories. The Temple of Anshar, like many others, was populated by Akkadians and conquered Sumerians, who all served an Akkadian king and worshipped a Sumerian god. And at some point, or so the story goes, the gods turned their faces away from the Akkadians and back to the Sumerians, destroying many of their temples and bringing an end to the civilization.
There was a part of me that felt silly lending credence to these ideas of the old gods performing acts on the globe, but that part was always eyed contemptuously by the part of me that remembers slaying an avatar of the Morrigan and being chased around by her and various other entities in the spirit world for the last seventy years. In the end, it was perfectly reasonable.
Except that there was little to any evidence of these particular gods' existence. Akkadian spells and rituals still existed, like the infamous Hammer of the World (or Malleus Mundi, as the Latin-loving magicians preferred to call it) which had the power to recreate parts of reality, but the gods themselves were nowhere to be found. Did they disappear? Were they sleeping? Were they killed? Did they even exist in the first place?
I hope that the investigation of the Temple of Anshar will give me some kind of answer to this.
Waitaminute!
I was pulled out my internal thought processes by Victor Kushan, who was pointing at me accusingly. You get all antsy about me coming along because you don't want to pay double, but then you go about spending money like a mad man while we're here? Nicest hotel, nicest restaurant... What gives!
I couldn't help but smile at his attempt at great insight. Are you familiar with the concept of noblesse oblige?
Gezundheit, Rostov Kushan jested.
I gave him a bemused look I'm well aware that he knows the term - and turned back to his brother. It's the old European idea that the nobility are obligated hence the words to the people of their fiefdom. It has long since been expanded with the idea that people of high birth are obligated to their class, as well, and this includes maintaining a certain extravagance.
Wait. You're nobility?
I smiled softly. The blood of the House of Bourbon flows through my veins.
That's a sign you drink too much, Rostov chimed in.
Regardless, yes, I am. I waved as if shooing a fly. But it is of no consequence nowadays; all my ancestral land has long been confiscated and sold. It is a near meaningless title in the modern world, and not something I parade around.
Victor looked unconvinced. That explains this stuff, but what about pinching pennies earlier?
I grinned. The secret success to any man of wealth and standing is this: be a miser at home and a liberal abroad.
Yeah, it's all about showing off, Rostov added in a helpful tone that I would like to assume was ironic. I responded with a fleeting glance of annoyance.
Correction: it's not just about showing off, I replied, stressing the 'just'. It's about spending your money in a way that is not a complete waste. I am a man of simple tastes and pleasures, so spending large amounts there would be a waste. If I did nothing with the money I hoarded, it would also be a waste. So I spend it when a worthy cause presents itself.
Victor glanced around the restaurant. Like this?
I smirked, raising my glass and making a toast. There is no worthier cause than granting the uninitiated their first taste of fine Parisian dining.
After initiating the two young men to a true Parisian crème brulee, we adjourned our meal and said our goodbyes for the night, each of us heading into a different direction to pursue item number two on our personal agendas. The younger Kushan wandered the streets of Paris, seeking out the clubs and other locations catering to a young man with a lot of energy, while the elder Kushan left to take care of some business in the city I did not bother asking what.
I returned to the quiet solitude of the hotel and my books, bringing with me a bottle of a delightful white wine that we had tasted at the restaurant, and settled down for an enjoyable few hours of reading and drinking. My standard nightly ritual followed: I recast my magical wards and took a small homemade tonic for settling congestion and easing sleep and went to bed.
I awoke the following morning without any memory of a dream or nightmare, which is the happy and intended effect of my personal sleeping draught, and spent some time in meditation until breaking the fast with the Kushans both of whom seemed to also be lacking in restful sleep.
Are you two ready for the next leg of our journey?
Rostov nodded. Just after I get some coffee.
Me, too... Victor mumbled. I stared at him in horror as my mind tried to comprehend what he would be like with a strong shot of caffeine.
We can stop by a small cafe on the way to the airfield, though if you're patient, we can wait and visit one of the world famous Viennese cafes. I caught my mistake immediately, and admitted it in somewhat subdued tones: Well, at least they were in my time, even if they lost the title of best strudel to Berlin after the Great War.
Whatever ya say, gramps, Victor replied as he walked out of the hotel. He had a tendency to come up with nicknames and monikers for every person he met, and that was mine. Generally he didn't use it unless he was feeling particularly playful or, as in this case, exhausted.
I let it pass and followed the two brothers out.
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Chapter XVI
In Which a Haunting Resumes
To be honest, there is an additional reason quite personal as to why I did not hurry from Paris to Vienna: I was reticent to break my long self-imposed exile from the city that was once the cultural and intellectual capital of Europe.
Like any other well-educated and well-to-do upper-class child of the 19th century, I spent a great deal of time in the two cultural capitals of Europe: Paris and Vienna. Of the two, I preferred the Austrian city and its famous salons and cafés, where the great intellectuals of the day came together to share coffee and culture, water and witticisms, pastries and politics.
Even after London supplanted all other cities in my heart, I still regularly visited the city in order to share knowledge and wisdom with the Guido-von-List-Gesellschaft, an occult society surrounding Guido von List. It was in those dealings that I first expanded my awareness of magical phenomenon outside the Hermetic system espoused in England; I discussed Germanic paganism, Armanism, Wotanism, and the runic magic system of Armanen Futharkh.
That ended, like so many things, when the Triple Entente succeeded in convincing Italy to betray its long standing alliance and invade the Austro-Hungarian Empire from the south. The Great War was a difficult time for every nation and every people, but it was particularly unpleasant for us Italians: despite having fewer people than either France or Britain, lost roughly as many people and unlike either of them, half of that number was from civilian casualties.
We were, supposedly, on the offensive throughout the entire war, though you would never have known it; for every battle fought, we lost more and more ground to the Austrians. It was, truly, not until the eleventh hour that is, during the last sixth month of the war - that fortunes changed and we pushed them back and drove into the country, forcing their surrender. Morale was low, casualties were high, and even I was affected by the oppressing despair.
A short time after the war, I returned to Vienna, and found the place to be incomparably different than I remembered. Not just because of the changing political climate and general social unrest, but because of the omnipresent feeling that I was surrounded by my enemies. Everything reminded me of violence and death, and I was never happier than when I finally left the city.
I haven't returned since.
Well, not until the Brothers Kushan and I set foot in the city after our twenty-four hour excursion in Paris.
It was with a small amount of trepidation that I stepped off the plane onto Austrian soil, but I found it much easier to cope with than I had expected. My memories of the country were unsullied by my brief visit after the war, and the landscape I saw before me had changed so much that it felt... alien. I traveled through the streets of Vienna with a disturbing sense of deja vu, caught in an uncanny valley of seeing an intimate friend clothed in the skin of a foreigner.
It was hard to equate the modern city of skyscrapers and suburbs with my great betrayer, and the feeling of walking over the graves of a million of my brethren was muted.
And then we passed through the city centre and into the old city and my eyes caught on the old alleyways. They had changed little from the days of my ill-spent youth, where I and my fellows evaded the watchful gaze of our minders and tutors to swipe a taste of the many delicacies and diversions that the city had to offer. I began to recognize the remains of cafés where I read poetry and talked philosophy and my mind traced the routes taken to some of the more popular salons, where gracious and intelligent men and women encouraged the propagation of art, artistry, and artists. I forged many relationships there, with those people, at that time, and faces paraded through my mind of pen-pals and paramours, most of whom had perished long before my self-imposed exile.
A building crossed my vision an old apartment, formerly the domicile of Franz Cerny. He was a caustic and energetic member of the Guido-von-List-Gesellschaft, roughly one-quarter of my age when we began to have regular arguments about theology, and thus was caught up in the Austro-Hungarian Army when the troubles began. I buried him and dozens more like him on the slopes of Mt. Baldo.
And with that thought came, unbidden and unwanted, the glacier of emotions and memories of the war. Sights. Sounds. Silence. The silence was always the worst part.
Hey, are you okay?
Victor Kushan's voice pierced the roaring stillness of the blood soaked Alps, but did nothing for the macabre menagerie behind my eyelids. I opened the eyes I didn't remember closing and paused, collecting my thoughts and mastering my vocal chords.
Geez, you look like you've seen a ghost, he added, inadvertently appropriate in his choice of metaphor.
The words returned. Merely a walk down memory lane, Mister Kushan. One of the advantages of a stoney countenance like mine is that I don't have to bother trying to fake a smile. I used to visit this city quite often in my time.
Whoa, it was still around back then? Victor Kushan's sense of humor was, at all times, a test of endurance. Sometimes to refrain from groaning, others from playfully smacking the back of his head or punching him in the shoulder, and, very rarely, from pulling his tongue out of his head via the ear canal with a pair of molten tongs.
I was, needless to say, not in the mood. He must have seen something of this on my face and added quickly, Justkiddinggrandp-er-Lorenzo-er-MisterMondavi.
I sighed and accepted his weak attempt at an apology and continued: Everybody who was anybody in Europe visited at least once in their life, if not once every year. I tended more toward the later in my youth. I had many friends here.
Oh, did they- He caught himself, the realization setting in that nearly every man and woman I had ever known had passed away a long time ago. He looked down sheepishly, then turned to his brother, seeking a way to change the subject. Are we there yet?
Rostov Kushan snorted and turned slightly, putting his elbow on the top of his chair and staring back at his brother. He waited a few moments, his trademark toothy grin revealing that he was basking in Victor's embarrassment; he enjoyed making other people uncomfortable, especially if it punctuates some mistake of theirs.
Yeah, it should only be a few more minutes. He glanced to our driver one of his bodyguards who gave a small nod of confirmation. We've started seeing lawns again, so we're in the right neighborhood.
I raised an eyebrow. You are familiar with Vienna?
Oh, yes... Plenty of clients here. He waved at one of the windows. Especially in this part of town, where all the private money is.
I nodded my understanding. Rostov Kushan got two kinds of jobs: corporate, where some large multinational conglomerate needed some competition removed or a market forced open in some small country; and private, where individuals such as myself had a small endeavor needing his expertise.
That reminds me, he added, focusing once again on his younger brother, I'll need you to do a small pickup and delivery job while Lorenzo and I are having our little chat with the Austrian.
What? Can't Oxford do it?
Rostov tapped his arm mysteriously. No. It needs to be you.
I glanced at Victor, who was mouthing an 'oh' of realization. My eye caught upon the armband that he was wearing, right at the same spot that Rostov had pointed on his own arm; it had small, intricate symbol of a trio of swords two short, one medium over a flaming fist. It was a recent acquisition of his - at least, I had never seen him wear it until the two of them answered my summons. I hadn't put together the meaning of the symbol until that moment, due to the fiery hand that was never a part of that particular configuration of the crest of the Hunters, as well as the fact that Hunters rarely advertised their membership.
This brings me to the inherited side of Rostov Kushan; he is the descendant of an organization that operates in the gray area between the warring factions of Heaven and Hell. Their origin is long lost to the mists of time, but their activities are known to all who take interest in such matters they primarily attempt to play one side against the other in order to preserve humanity and its freedom.
In general, I find the notion appealing.
I had known for some time that the elder brother was an active member of the society, but Victor's admission was new to me. Between that, the enchanted pistol he carried at his side, and his introduction into the world of a mercenary, it seemed that the two brothers were growing more and more alike.
Concealing both my secret amusement and my understanding that Victor Kushan was being sent on a job for the Hunters, I turned back to the window, just in time to see Herr Auer's apartment building with its faux stone exterior and delicately manicured lawn - come into view.
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Chapter XVII
In Which Agreements are Made
Heinrich Auer, like many other residents of his upper class Viennese suburb, lived in a relatively spacious apartment built in a symmetrical, neoclassical style. The relatively is an important part of the sentence, since I have lived in the New World for nearly a century and have grown quite used to the excess of space and large proportions therein. I am told that many American tourists find the sheer density of Europe beyond their mental grasp, and the accommodations to be constrictive and downright claustrophobic. Neither of the Kushans made any remarks in that direction, though, so I can't confirm this with any firsthand experience.
Having left Victor to his task, Rostov and I approached the front door and gave the doorbell a ring. The sound of footsteps and a shift in light through the peephole proceeded an old and worn voice, which inquired as to our persons'.
Herr Auer, I replied in German, It is I, Lorenzo Mondavi, and I would like to take a few moments of your time.
Mondavi? You look younger than I expected... The voice mused. My age is something of an open secret, in that I am generally quite frank about my lengthy existence, but I do not advertise it in any manner. Mister Amann, who considers me to be something of a rival to him in the antiquities business, is one of the few people outside my general acquaintances who I know is aware of my origins, and it is not particularly surprising that he would have shared this information with one of his favorite clients. Herr Auer gestured to Rostov. What about him?
Merely an associate of mine. Rostov Kushan.
Auer grunted noncommittally, not giving any indication as to whether or not he recognized the mercenary's name. So, what brings you all the way here?
De Sarzec. From what I had heard, Herr Auer was a very quick-witted man who did not generally enjoy conversation. By cutting right to the chase, so it were, I would play to his good side.
There was a long pause, presumably during which Herr Auer was considering all of his options, and eventually decided in my favor; the sounds of bolts sliding and locks turning echoed briefly, and then the door swung wide open. Auer, a semi-retired German whose skin appeared to be losing the fight with gravity slightly more than the average 60-something, waved for us to enter and then shut the door behind us.
The apartment was Spartan and sparse, as per the classic German style, with the only ornamentation allowed being various artifacts that he had collected over the years and which he had arranged on various furniture surfaces with small placards and cards detailing each item. He took a seat in a large leather rocking chair, and gestured for Rostov Kushan and I to do the same. I kept my coat on, but removed my hat out of respect, sitting it upon my knees.
You've figured it out, eh? He asked, to which I said nothing, preferring to let him make assumptions first. I wasn't so naïve as to think I was the only person who found the Shubat-Anshar reference, but you'll have to forgive me for being disappointed that you figured it out so soon.
I smiled.
So, what, you want his work?
I do, indeed.
He leaned forward, conspiratorially. The folks at the University of Vienna sent you here?
I shook my head. It only occurred to me later in the conversation that he was trying to find out if one of his co-conspirators had betrayed him. I have yet to visit them. I came here straight from the Louvre. Somehow, I didn't think I'd find it there.
Really? You made the connection then? He laughed, which devolved into worrisome hacking. I was hoping that by working through the university, I'd avoid suspicion. So much for that...
To be fair, Herr Auer, I acquiesced, I doubt that anybody not in my unique position would have made the connection.
Flattering me, Herr Mondavi? Auer gave me a wry look.
Merely acknowledging the simple truth. My face remained bland. Truly, we were both right I was indeed trying to groom him into aiding me, and I also doubt that somebody not already aware of his interest in the matters would have connected things directly to him.
Well, I let you and your mercenary in here, so you already know my position. And he was right, at that; he wanted to make a deal. He knew that I would not be daunted by any refusal on his part, and that he'd lost the safety of anonymity, so I would be able to dog his heels from here until eternity. I'm glad I didn't turn you away, to be honest you'd make a frightening enemy.
Kushan grinned, exposing his sharpened canines. Auer, to his merit, did not flinch. It wasn't often that I faced an intelligent opponent who considered myself in their class and assumed that I had already figured everything out the late Detective Doctor Graham and Madam Rabinovich being the two of the most recent. It was a refreshing change of pace.
Your terms, Herr Auer?
Terms? He chuckled. We're friends now, yes? Or perhaps merely allies of convenience? Such terms are beneath us. We shall simply have a mutually beneficial business arrangement. We assist one another, find the temple together, and share the glory. I'm sure that's better than any deal you may have gotten from that arrogant Jew, Benveniste.
I raised an eyebrow in surprise that he would be aware of my attempts to reason with Benveniste, but, in retrospect, it was an easy assumption to make.
He smiled affably. I've come too close to the discovery to let it slip through my hands because of some stupid, cutthroat competition.
He rose to his feet, and walked to the window, sliding the curtain just enough to see beyond. That doesn't eliminate the issue of trust. You come to me with a bodyguard though your backup has disappeared and here I am defenseless. I have no guarantees to my safety regardless of whether or not I assist you. You, Herr Mondavi, hold all the cards.
I always bargain from a position of strength, Herr Auer. I smirked, not adding the more important addendum of trying to maneuver such that success was inevitable. Blame my Sicilian blood, if you must.
He grunted at the last remark. Even after all the years of speaking Austrian German, I still retained some of the Italian accent that I grew up with, just as Heinrich Auer's accent betrayed his northern German heritage. At least I had the advantage of speaking English as an Oxfordian, instead of as a foreigner.
Fine, fine... He sighed heavily and turned back to me from the window. My terms are that I want to be with you during the excavation and we'll use my team, which I've already put together and are waiting for me in Iraq. We share all credit. We will deal with the findings themselves after we uncover them and determine their quantity and nature.
I nodded. In exchange, I wish to see all of De Sarzec's relics that you have acquired, as well as the Arabic manuscript you purchased some time ago.
He paused a short bit, obviously taken aback by my request for the manuscript. After a short internal debate, he agreed: Yes, yes, you'll be wanting to see the bit about the Key.
I was... confused. Nothing I had read had ever indicated such.
Oh, yes, of course you wouldn't know about yet, Herr Mondavi, he explained, nobody does, except for me and a few of my friends at the university...
Herr Auer told us that an associate of his in the university had put in the request for De Sarzec's work, and when the crates arrived, had them disappeared - Lost in Shipment being the official news. In reality, they were moved discreetly to one of the labs for analysis and restoration. Auer brought the Arabian manuscript with him to the laboratory in order to compare its text with the writings on the relics. The technicians, though, misinterpreted his intentions and analyzed the manuscript as well. They found numerous faded lines that had been written over or corrected, indicating that the parchment had been reused or redacted at some point in the past. The hidden text described an object, referred to as a Key, that had been passed down for generations by the Cult of Anshar, a group claiming origins back to the original temple, until they were wiped out by Muhammedists. The Key itself was said to unlock the gateway to the ancient temple.
I see. Assuming we were operating with a mystical temple with real magical artifacts, and not simply a bunch of ancient religious charlatans, then there still might be some barrier protecting the remains. I added, aloud, Perhaps that's why the temple has not been found all this time...
Because nobody had the key? Herr Auer barked laughter. Surely you don't believe in any of that? Sure, we have magic, but that's all from Mu and Oranbega and their so-called gods; there's no evidence that Enlil and Anshar and so forth were actually real.
I entertain all possibilities, Herr Auer.
His laughter subsided after he saw the serious look on my face. Well, then we're in trouble; I don't have the Key. I've had Thomas looking for it, but he hasn't gotten much yet. There have only been two expeditions to that area the recent French one and a German dig in the 19th century and since I have not found anything matching its description in De Sarzec's collection... He left the sentence hanging.
Has Amann acquired the journals from that dig, yet? I asked, somewhat disturbed at the coincidence that Mr. Bertram had asked after those specific items. Bertram couldn't have known about the Key from the manuscript, so he must have learned of it from another source. But where?
He nodded. Yes, yes. Just this morning he called me. He's going to ship them to me tomorrow. The archaeologists were quite meticulous in their records, so if the Key was found, it should be fully described in the lists.
How will you know it?
Its description is rather distinctive, but incredibly difficult to explain. It's something of a... His fingers flexed in punctuation of the uselessness of words. A geometrical oddity. I dare say non-Euclidean. There is a faded diagram on the back of the manuscript, which people long thought to be a symbol of the Cult of Anshar, but which I think is a duplication of the head of the key the stone protrusions from the end of the cylinder itself.
My curiosity was perked. May I see the design?
He shook his head. No, no... I mean, not right now. I left it with the other items at the university. After everything is fully documented and replicated digitally, then the university will suddenly 'find' its missing shipment from the Louvre. I plan on donating the manuscript then.
Very well. I shall go to the university and take a look, I announced, rising to my feet. Rostov Kushan followed soon after.
Auer was taken aback. What? Right now? I haven't even had the chance to offer you tea and coffee!
Yes, now. I gave him a somewhat genuine look of disappointment tea sounded splendid. But I was afraid that we had no time for this. I am a generally patient man, but I have met two others besides you and I who are on the trail of Shubat Anshar, and Amann is smart enough to figure it out himself, now that you've let him in on your pursuit that makes five. Who else might be chasing it? Perhaps somebody who already has the Key?
I see. He chuckled. You are as tenacious and efficient as they say, Herr Mondavi, far belying your age. I would ask you your secret but, then, it wouldn't be secret, would it?
Farewell, Herr Auer. I put my hat on and left.
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Chapter XVIII
In Which a Young Man Discusses a Diversion
So, should I break out the MP-5s and C-4?
Rostov Kushan and I were standing outside Auer's flat, waiting for his brother to return with the car. We'd only been talking with the German Austrian for a short time, but I was assured that Victor was performing most of his task at his normal hyperaccelerated rate, and would return shortly.
I gave him a long look. Whatever for?
To force him to give us what we want, of course. I stared at him blankly. And to stop his inevitable betrayal. Much easier to just blow up his apartment now than have him sabotaging us later.
You don't- Realization dawned. He couldn't understand German. My usual assistant, Madam Rabinovich, is a linguist of some renown (in her field, that is) and knows well over a dozen languages; I am not used to being in a situation with any kind of linguistic difficulties. My apologies, Rostov, I am used to working with Madam Rabinovich.
Ah. He snickered. Yes, well, she is the most cunning of all- He cut himself off from completing the rather rude joke, more than likely due to the look I was giving him, which said something along the lines of 'I can erase you from existence'.
Rostov coughed. She does know a lot of languages. Understandable. Can't really live up to that. I took some German in High School, but I don't remember much...
I accepted this as an apology and returned to the discussion on Herr Auer. No, no, he's on our side, Kushan. He has supplied me with valuable information and we have made an agreement regarding the search for the temple.
Oh? He shrugged. Then where're the manuscripts and things?
At the university, so we're going there as soon as your brother returns. Sure enough, I saw the Kushans' car speeding in the distance. You should also have a flight prepped, since we'll be going to Switzerland later today.
Switzerland?
I nodded. To visit Thomas Amann and lay claim to some journals he is holding. Then it's off to Luxembourg. If things go well, we shall visit Mister Bertram some time tomorrow.
And we're just going to leave Auer here? His jaw set. Not afraid he's going to run off without us?
Actually, once I send him my instructions, he is supposed to do exactly that, and we will meet up with him and his archaeological team in Iraq. I gave him a small smile. If it will ease your sociopathic little heart, you can leave one of your men here on a stakeout.
He snorted.
It wouldn't be in Auer's self-interest to betray us, Kushan, I explained as his car arrived. Especially once I have the Key and manuscripts. In case you didn't notice, your presence is somewhat intimidating.
He laughed as we entered the car, and was quickly on his car phone his satellite phone wasn't working properly giving instructions for a man to watch Auer's home and person, and for the plane to be prepped and flight authorizations to be obtained; the vital yet tedious minutia that are required in the career and the field.
My stints as military man, mafioso, and minor noble all had some measure of the micromanagement of manpower, and I always found it a mysterious mix of odd comfort and extreme stress. When one is such an exacting perfectionist as myself, the ability to control every event eases the mind, up until the point where one realizes that they spend so much time controlling the lives of others that they have sacrificed all control of their own. Finding the balance is complicated, and not something I ever managed to accomplish.
I haven't been in a leadership role for seventy years. Perhaps one day in the future I shall return to such a position. And strike the happy balance, or a semblance thereof.
It was a short journey to the university and to the department of Herr Doktor-Professor Hermann Fischer, the man in charge of the library where Herr Auer was planning to donate his collection, and the current caretaker of his manuscript. With a short amount of insistence and some minor name dropping of one of their wealthiest patrons, we were quickly ushered into the office of the illustrious department head.
Ah, good morning! Herr Doktor-Professor Fischer exclaimed from behind what I could only assume was a large desk covered in papers and dirty coffee cups. He coughed and stuck his hand into the pile and pulled out a small obsidian rock containing an even smaller timepiece and squinted at it. Or good afternoon, as the case may be. How can I help you, gentlemen?
Herr Doktor-Profess-
Please, please, you're making me feel old! He grinned at his feeble attempt at humor. I immediately put him into the mental category of old jolly professor and tensed for the trial of patience that dealing with such types inevitably requires. Call me Hermann. Doktor Fischer is a perfectly acceptable alternative, if you're so inclined.
Doktor Fischer, I obliged, my name is Lorenzo Mondavi, and these are my associates, Rostov Kushan and Victor Kushan. They both smiled and nodded. I am here on behalf of a client of mine, Herr Heinrich Auer.
Oh, yes? His face brightened. And how is old Heinrich?
Doing rather well, as far as I am aware, I replied, leaving the statement open in case there was some problem that I didn't know of. After a moment, I added, He is... enthused and preoccupied, at the moment.
Doktor Fischer nodded benevolently. Ah, yes, yes, that work of De Sarzec. All he can talk about, these days. I nice little diversion, yes, and well worth it if it keeps patronship.
Diversion?
Oh! He covered his mouth. Don't tell him I said that! It's interesting, if you're into that sort of thing, but it's really just a minor footnote in history. I see new things like it every day.
Ah, I understand. If there were no possibilities of magical artifacts or metaphysical artifacts, I, too, would have considered the discovery an interesting diversion and little more; I certainly wouldn't be traipsing across Europe. And that is precisely why I am here.
He blinked at me in confusion. Because De Sarzec's work is not so important?
I smiled, amused. Because of De Sarzec's work, period. Herr Auer is full of pent up energy and frustration over the shipping delays, and needs something to divert his attention; he would like to study a particular manuscript that he has lent to the university.
Oh, good idea, good idea. He paused for a moment and his features went through the standard phases that I have come to associate with the traitorous memory of the absent-minded professor. Which manuscript?
Arabic, dated to the mid 6th century CE. His face remained blank, so I continued, controlling my urge to sigh. It is the account of a religious group, known as the Cult of Anshar, and claims the existence of an otherwise unknown and uncorroborated temple dedicated to same deity and supposedly destroyed by the gods at some point during near the end of the Akkadian Empire.
You're familiar with the piece? He gave me a look of astonishment and... glee? Do you work in the field?
It is an associated field, actually. I am a dealer in rare books and antiquities.
Really? He scratched his head. The declaration of my profession has generally led to two responses: astonished joy from those who enjoy books and history, and polite disappointment from those who do not. Rarely do I get the look of surprise. Doesn't Heinrich usually go through Thomas?
Thomas Amann, yes. I waved in the air vaguely. With any luck, Herr Auer will stop hiring my competitor and will stick to my exclusive services.
Ah. He laughed. Good luck to you on that, lad, Thomas knows his stuff; a very bright young man, when he puts his mind to it. And these two, they're employees of yours?
I nodded, glad not to be forced to comment upon Amann (about whom I have very little good to say). They do various odd jobs for me, as well as augmenting my knowledge of regarding relics of the Mu peoples. My own personal specialty is in the Oranbegan mystics, so our skillsets compliment each other nicely.
Oranbegan? You mean the originals, or the Circle?
Both.
Oh really! His eyes lit up with a fire that I had come to associate with Mister Rabinovich's passionate forays into science generally of the mad variety. Sure enough, Doktor Fischer began firing off questions about the original Mu-based Oranbegans as fast as I could answer them. Within a short time, he and I got caught up in a small discussion about the Oranbegan culture, and, as such conversations are wont to go, settled into such niche arguments as to the nature and classification of their pottery and burial rites.
This was, eventually, interrupted by Rostov Kushan taking his leave to answer his cell phone. I examined Doktor Fischer's obsidian encased clock and decided that it was time for us to move on.
I am sad to hear it, Herr Mondavi, he replied when I informed him. We were having the most delightful conversation; I must say, you are quite thoroughly well-versed in the culture.
I gave him a small bow. Thank you for the compliment, Doktor. I have studied them a great deal. Know thy enemy. He raised an eyebrow at that remark, and I hastily explained: When your job is the buying and selling and sometimes discovering! - of artifacts, you run afoul of the Circle of Thorns far more often than most other professions. Unless you work in a museum or university antiquities, I suppose.
So true, so true. He laugh, heartily. I couldn't possibly count the number of times we've had those foul ruffians show to try and deprive us of our priceless artifacts. You'd better be careful, young man.
I gave Victor a furtive glance to see if he noticed Doktor Fischer's mistake, but his inability to understand German saved me from having to quell any uncontrollable laughter or suffer jokes about my youth later. As it were, I was wandering the halls of this university before Fischer's parents were born.
In any case, he went on, oblivious to his error, the manuscript is in storage downstairs. Just head down and ask the librarian to assist you in retrieving it I'll call ahead here. I didn't see a telephone for him to use, but that was hardly a surprise, given the horrendous clutter. It could be anywhere.
Thank you for assistance and time, Doktor Fischer. I bowed once again and turned to leave, Victor Kushan following right behind.
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Chapter XIX
In Which a Damsel is Rescued
For as long as mankind has been able to organize its thoughts and memories into language and inscribe those bits of information into something more permanent than human eardrums, men have collected those scraps into storehouses of knowledge. Some people horde it for themselves in their own private homes like my associates Bertram and Auer while others of a more selfless spirit and broader view create museums and libraries.
In the center of this, stands the humble guardian of wisdom and keeper of knowledge, the librarian. To the layman, the librarian is merely a custodian, arranging the shelves and tending to what few cares a book may have; to the illumined, the librarian is a companion in the search for knowledge, and an attendant to its acquisition, who can measure a book to a man much in the same way that a tailor does suits.
How metaphorical, Victor mused as we stood in one such storehouse of knowledge in the University of Vienna.
How apt, I corrected, and pointed out the various librarians bustling about the room, helping lost students find the research material they had not yet known they were seeking, and returning to the shelves those that had been found and once again discarded. In my experience, you will find very few people with such breadth of knowledge as a librarian, who may be called upon at any moment to assist in the research of sixth century Chinese literature, poets of medieval Romania, or advances in the studies of Bose-Einstein condensates. This will often be followed up by somebody looking for 'this book about a guy in China or was it Sweden? - who is solving this mystery where you think the guy with the green suit stole the crown jewels but it was actually the street performer's monkey'.
I think I've read that one.
Haven't we all? I replied drolly. Victor Kushan, like Mister Rabinovich, was completely incapable of avoiding a chance to crack a joke, no matter how obvious the set up or worn the pun. The point is, if we wish to return to the metaphorical tract, we are now in the most sacred of temples, young Kushan.
Hey, now, you know I like books as much as the next man, but I wouldn't go so far as to worship them.
I raised an eyebrow. I'm surprised you didn't make a crack about looking for the Vestal Virgins.
None of those here." He grinned broadly. These are college students.
Ah. The wonders of mixed education. I did not point out that the segregation between male and female colleges had no effect whatsoever upon the escapades of my classmates; there was an unwritten rule that Morals Were Kept and People Were Chaste And Honest In The Old Days, regardless of how things actually were.
Regardless, I find that it is always worthwhile to enter a library with the proper spirit, even if you are simply there to pick up an object behind the counter. Not that I expected the manuscript to be close at hand; it would take a small miracle for Herr Fischer to have even remembered to call ahead and inform the librarian of my request. Even if he had, it did not appear that the young lady at the front desk had any opportunity to leave, seeing as how she was in the middle of an increasingly heated argument with a tall and thick young Englishman.
Due to the rather loud and extremely careless nature of the male participant in the argument, I soon understood that they were a romantically involved couple who were mere minutes away from becoming two tragically separated singles. The causes were a bit murky at first, but once Victor embarrassedly interpreted some of the modern slang, I pieced together the events.
I stood back for a time, silent and patient, not wanting to get involved in private affairs, regardless of how public the affairs specifically, the two affairs the Englishman had during the past weekend were being made. My attitude changed once the woman started considering hysteria and the man violence to bring the two of them together again; after all, I reasoned, there's nothing impolite with being involved in public matters.
Also, there are two things I do not condone in my backward ways: making a woman cry, and laying a hand on a woman in anger. Victor seemed to be of the same mind, but I put a hand on his shoulder in restraint. I did not want to attract the attention that metahuman abilities brought.
Excuse me? The man continued ranting, and had grabbed the woman by the upper arm, rather forcefully. I repeated, louder. Excuse me.
What do you want?! He shouted, turning to me. He appeared to me to be of the tall, dark, and handsome with an edge of dangerous that young ladies tend to find attractive before they (both the men and the women) grow old enough and wise enough to know better. He probably played Rugby.
You do realize that this is a library, yes?
Uh... duh.
And that a library is a public location, where peace and quiet are considered paramount for the acquisition of knowledge in this, a public location.
Yeah, yeah, public, got it.
Because you seem to have this space confused with your home.
Ha ha, leave us alone, grandpa. He turned back to her.
I'm not a grandfather, I announced. I never had children. He glanced back at me with an incredibly confused look. If I did, I would make absolutely certain that they knew how disappointed I would be in their persons if they ever behaved themselves in an inconsiderate fashion. Since I do not, I will have to take it out on you.
He gritted his teeth, obviously at odds between his desire to attack the annoyance I presented and his reluctance to harm somebody so much older than him. He decided, instead, to order his soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend out of the library.
Now, now, young sir, that is doing nothing for my opinion of your person. You are violating a series of taboos regarding the treatment of your elders, women, and human beings in general. I cannot let you escort the young miss off of the premises, since I need her to assist me in picking up a manuscript at the insistence of Herr Fischer.
The man whirled on me. Now you see here, gramps. I've had it up to here with... your... He halted and looked down. He had grabbed the front of my jacket out of anger; both Victor and he looked at his hand in shock, while I was staring at his offending hand with horrible intensity. He swallowed and let go, and I returned to looking at him in the eye. He tried to continue his sentence, but something he saw in my eyes made him lose his breath.
I was not pleased.
I believe an apology is in order, I announced, continuing to give him a steady glare.
Er, um, yes... sorry, mister...
Your offenses against me are small in number and minor in consequence. The young lady, however...
He hesitated. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face down to mine. There was no magic in this feat of strength unlike many others I perform at least, not in the sense of the arcane that people generally mean when they speak of the magical arts; this was magic in the street performer sense: the use and abuse of psychology and showmanship.
You are young, and you are stupid, so I will give you the benefit of the doubt. My tone was deep and level, monotone, and very quickly settling into the Tone of Command that I had to learn as an officer in the Italian Army. You will apologize to her now, and then you will walk out this room and out of her life. No woman deserves such a neanderthal and, even more important, such a neanderthal deserves no woman. Leave her, and learn from the ruin you have made of your life and her life.
I'm sorry! He started to struggle, then, and pry my hand his collar. I grabbed his hand by the wrist and squeezed.
Do this and leave.
The fool stuttered his apologies including some eyebrow raising offenses that had not arisen previously in the conversation and wandered out of the library in something of a daze. At some point in the future, probably around the time he made it through the parking lot, he would come to his senses and start to ask himself 'What the hell just happened back there?' With any luck, his sheer embarrassment at being pushed around by a white haired man of his apparent fifties would be enough to keep him away.
If he was unlucky, he'd be returning just as we were leaving and thus beyond the view of any bystanders.
The young lady watched her ex-boyfriend depart, then gradually swung her attention back to Victor and myself, her face frozen in that look of astonishment and surprise that would soon be coming over his.
Lorenzo Mondavi, at your service, miss, I announced, giving her a small bow. And my assistant, Victor Kushan.
Oh! She blinked, snapped out of her reverie. I'm, uh, Sylvia. Sylvia Braun. Um, thank you.
Thanks are not necessary, miss. I waved my hand dismissively. The name sounded familiar, but Braun was a common Germanic name, and Sylvia was common in all countries that had ever been exposed to the Bard's sonnets.
Trivial matter, Victor piped in.
A trivial man, I corrected; the matter itself is not trivial to those who are involved and those who are hurt.
You know what I mean... Victor glowered, gave Miss Braun a shy glance, and sort of shimmered he still had tenuous control of some of his powers, and tended to start to fade from view when uncomfortable. I realized that he was merely trying to make a show of bravado in order to woo and calm (in that order of priority) the young lady; I had, so the parlance goes, shot him down.
Indeed I do. I smiled and turned back to the librarian. Fraulein Braun, I understand that you are in the middle of something of a trying time, so I offer you the suggestion of temporarily losing yourself in your work. I find that it helps to have some form of idle distraction or another.
Oh! She cleared her throat, wiped her nose, and straightened her blouse and skirt, then gave me a conspiratorial look. Oh, like finding you that manuscript that Herr Fischer phoned about?
I gave a faux innocent look. Oh, yes, I had forgotten all about that. If you would be so kind, I would be eternally in your debt.
She gave a little laugh and a hair toss and wandered off, with a You? In my debt? muttered under her breath. As soon as she had disappeared into the back rooms, Victor turned to me with a look somewhere between awe and annoyance.
How did you do that?!
Which part?
Any of it! He pointed out the door. I've seen Ros do that to people, but he does it with glowing red eyes, sharp fangs, and a couple not-so-subtle hints about automatic weaponry! What did you do, hit him with some fear magic? Where can I get some?
Nothing like that, Victor, nothing like that. I reached out to his collar demonstratively, but did not grab it; he flinched, nonetheless. See? You, yourself, have some measure of fear and I have done nothing. It is all psychology, all confidence. If you convince someone, even a little bit, that they can be pushed around, then they ultimately will be; their subconscious takes over and they lose all control.
And her? He lowered his voice. If you looked twenty years younger, you could totally ask her out now.
Also confidence and politeness. I grinned. Besides, if I were so inclined to take advantage, do you really think she would care about my apparent age?
He stared. I could see the little gears turning in his head all the women he knew who admitted attraction to aging movie stars and celebrities, all the stories about wealthy old men and their beautiful young wives and he shuddered. I suppressed a laugh as Fraulein Braun returned.
Here you are, Mister Mondavi. She set a small cardboard box on the counter and removed the lid, revealing the Arabian manuscript and its plastic housing.
When is the due date? I asked, amusedly. Also, I am afraid I do not have a library card.
She laughed, a bubbley thing, but deep in the throat, and sparked a memory. I don't think it's necessary. Is this it?
Yes, yes- unless you can find the lost cylinder that was supposed to be shipped here, Fraulein Braun.
That would require magic, I think. She smiled. And call me Sylvia.
I hesitated. Sylvia? As in the Shakespeare? Or named after someone?
The latter; my grandmother's grandmother or something like that. She sealed the box and slid it across to me. She was named after her grandmother, and she was named after the sonnet. I get no end of English literature and poetry majors trying to use that as a pickup line.
Ah, yes, of course. How horribly original of them. I chuckled along with her, and took the manuscript, suddenly feeling rather nervous. Grandmother's grandmother? Couldn't be. Thank you for your assistance. You have been most helpful.
No, thank you! She stopped, her fingers spread on the counter, and gave me a sheepish look. A small band of gold and jade flashed on one of her fingers.
Oh dear.
I pulled my gold timepiece a pocket watch I purchased shortly before the Great Depression - out of my pocket and made a small show of examining it. Ah! I am afraid I must depart. Victor, our flight to Switzerland is at hand.
Farewell, Fraulein. I bowed. May your tomorrow be infinitely more happy than your yesterday.
Why did we leave in such a hurry? Victor asked as we entered the parking lot. She was totally into you.
That would be the reason. I gave him a 'do not ask further' look, but those always seem to go over Victor Kushan's head.
What? You're too old? She's too young? He scratched his head. Or is it because of Sofia? I thought you and her weren't actually an item...
We aren't, I declared, slightly annoyed. Things between Madam Rabinovich and I have always been complicated; whatever attractions there are between us, nothing can come of it. She is married.
No, I went on, the problem is with the young Sylvia Braun. And the old Sylvia Braun. He gave me a confused look. Did you see the ring on her finger? The jade one? He nodded. Well, I purchased a jade and gold ring for a lover of mine, back when, oh, I was around your age.
He stared. Wait. Seriously? He looked back over his shoulder at the entrance to the library. Grandmother's grandmother's grandmother?
I nodded gravely. Quoting Shakespeare worked much better then.
That's... Whoa. I could almost see the smoke rise from Victor's ears as he pondered the strange coincidence.
There you two are!
I turned around to see the elder Kushan bearing down on us, just slowing down from a sprint. He had a look of urgent worry and annoyance no doubt he had been looking for us in Herr Fischer's office but the former far outweighed the latter on his features, so I immediately became worried. The Kushans never worried.
I've been looking all over for you... Your new friend Auer is dead.
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Chapter XX
In Which the Dead are Counted
Dead?
Blown up.
Explain.
As in ka-boom. Rostov Kushan waved his hands demonstratively. His apartment exploded.
Exploded? This news was... unnerving. Do you think it has to do with us?
Well, I considered that Auer might have been involved in something else, he rolled his eyes, and then I checked the newswire. Victor and I both raised our eyebrows at this; Rostov took a moment for dramatic effect. Our pal Benveniste bit the dust, too. The French police say that he was mauled pretty heavily last night and they suspect the Circle of Thorns or some such.
It sounds like we aren't the only ones hunting the temple.
Yeah, somebody not afraid to kill off his competitors, he replied.
Both Benveniste and Auer murdered within twelve hours of each other... Why them and why now? Herr Auer was the closest person besides myself to the temple, having pieced together most of the puzzle and acquired De Sarzec's work; Benveniste, though, didn't have anything beyond some of De Sarzec's work, and most of that he'd unwittingly sent to Auer.
Oh no, I gasped, De Sarzec's work!
The Kushans looked at each other, then quickly came to the same conclusion: if Auer is dead, then we've lost our only link to De Sarzec's work, which was sitting in the lab of some technician who knows that he'd be in serious trouble if anybody found out that he'd been doing this work clandestinely. Once word got out of Auer's death, which could honestly be any minute, who knows what a jumpy tech might do with the artifacts. They'd probably get stashed away for days or even weeks before they'd mysteriously appear again in shipping. We had to find the technician now.
I looked down at the box containing the manuscript, and my eye caught on the barcode and various stickers proclaiming its contents and origin. The Germans and Austrians both were notorious for their record keeping, and perhaps...
Within moments I was back at the front desk of the library, Miss Braun startled and happily surprised by my sudden reappearance. How can I help you?
I was wondering if you could help me track down someone, I replied, and set the box on the counter. You see, just a short bit ago this manuscript was being analyzed by one of the labs and they returned some rather fascinating results. Would it be possible to tell me where to find the people who worked on it? I have many questions to ask them about it.
Well, I'll see what I can do. She scanned the box and turned to her computer. Several seconds of clicking, followed by an exclamation of satisfaction and a smile, and she returned. It was returned by one of the grad students under Herr Doktor Fischer, from lab room 413, this building.
Grad students... Do you have a name?
Yes, sir, but I can't give that out. She grimaced. School policy. I'm sure Doktor Fischer can help you there.
I gave her a small bow of thanks, repeated my goodbyes from earlier, and retreated to the main building. It didn't appear that Doktor Fischer actually knew of Auer's subterfuge, so we instead went straight to lab room 413, which took us into a poorly lit and unoccupied corridor of the building. We hoped that, perhaps, while the rest of the area was unstaffed, the technicians in 413 would be working, but, alas, the room itself appeared empty.
I turned to the Kushans, disappointed. Unless we can find a list somewhere telling us who was in this room and when...
Can't you find it magically? Victor asked.
I shook my head. Scrying for objects that I'd never seen without any fetters or magical connections was always an extremely difficult task for me; my skills generally lay in other areas. If I had time to conduct a proper psychometric ritual, I'd be able to trace back and look at who and what entered the room but, again, it would require a great deal of time that we didn't have just to parse through all the people, since I would not be familiar with any of them.
Wait. Rostov Kushan tilted his head. Do you guys smell that?
My nose failed me, up until he forced open the door to the lab and the putrid air from inside poured out. It was a smell I knew all too well: that of the recently deceased. A quick search of the area led us to one of the many storage closets which, upon opening, revealed a young Austrian man who recently found himself on the wrong side of a discharged firearm.
I groaned in realization. Of course, of course.
Rostov Kushan snickered. Heh, yeah, of course he would be dead, too. The repeated words were dripping in sarcasm.
Well, yes, it is obvious in hindsight; he had the relics, I explained, while reflexively raising my hand in order to make the sign of the cross over the poor student. I caught myself and quickly closed the closet, stunned by the return of a habit I had lost a long time ago. I have seen, and even caused, many deaths, but rarely was it from an innocent bystander; perhaps that is why the reflex had returned. Or maybe it was the uneasy feelings of Vienna...
I coughed and turned back to the Kushans, hopefully continuing my explanation before they could notice: That would be the tie between the victims: Benveniste had them, then Auer, then this young man. Our murderer has probably been tracking this down from Paris, like us, killing everybody who knew the whereabouts of De Sarzec's findings. I grimaced. Probably after questioning them.
You know, Rostov pointed out as we left the labroom, leaving the door slightly ajar so that the smell would travel, we're going to be suspect numero uno once word gets out: we're one of the last people to see the other two alive, and we were just seen asking about this guy. He looked down pointedly. Even got your prints all over the murder scene.
I silently cursed my lack of gloves, like the Kushans were wearing, and conjectured, We met with Herr Fischer as well and he's still alive. I felt a small pang of dread. I hope.
We hurried back to Herr Fischer's office, running when nobody was looking and briskly walking the rest of the time, just in time to see the good doctor step out into the hallway. I breathed a small sigh of relief and darted around a corner, just out of sight.
Mister Kushan, I gave the elder brother a stern look and point a thumb back over my shoulder, I want Herr Fischer watched much closer and better than with Herr Auer and his office bugged. If somebody tries to kill him, I want to know immediately. I hesitated a moment, debating inwardly, then added, Keep it quiet and hidden, I don't want to scare our unknown opponent off. We need him to give himself away.
Rostov nodded, pulled out a small handheld radio at least, the small hi-tech device looked that vaguely like a radio and began whispering small coded commands over it. Confident that this would be done quickly and competently, I turned my thoughts back to the problem at hand.
We had an opponent, unknown, trying to pursue the Temple of Anshar. They likely had De Sarzec's work and would have had the manuscript, too, if it hadn't been stored in the library and retrieved by me. They may or may not have gotten a hold of this Key artifact that Auer spoke of, and would still need the journals which Mister Amann had just acquired.
Um, shouldn't we call this Amann guy? Victor suggested. What if these guys go after him, too?
Good idea, but... I frowned. For all we know, Mister Amann is the one behind this all. If we call him, he'll know that we know he's involved, and he'll take adequate precautions or, worse, go to ground somewhere.
Right... He scratched his head. So we aren't going to call your pal Bertram, either? He saw my small look of confusion, and added, Like, maybe he sets you out to try and ferret the information from these guys, but has someone follow you in order to wipe the trail. He doesn't like Auer much, though, so he offs him and takes his stuff. Now he just has to sit back and wait for you to come back with the manuscript.
I frowned. It was a valid hypothesis, but it still left us with one soon to be very dead Amann.
Unless he's dead already, Victor pointed out.
So either we need to catch him, save him, or perform his autopsy, and we can't call him without losing the first option. How long would it take us to fly there, I wondered, not liking the odds.
He's the Swiss guy, right? Rostov asked, lowering his radio. I nodded. In which city?
Geneva.
No problems, then. I joined Victor in giving his older brother a look demanding an explanation. He coolly slipped the radio into a pouch in his jacket and withdrew a small PDA. I've got lots of friends in Switzerland. Let me make a few calls and we can discreetly see if Amann is home. We can be there in just a few hours.
I nodded my confirmation. Make it so.
Global @Diellan - 5M2M
Mids' Hero/Villain Designer Lead
Virtue Server
Redside: Lorenzo Mondavi
Blueside: Alex Rabinovich
Got a Mids suggestion? Want to report a Mids bug?
Due to certain RL issues (one of the authors got drafted this last week and is currently in basic training, to be precise) we shall be cutting back on posting for this story until such time as he has a little more time on his hands again. We will still be posting at least once a week, however, and expect to finish the story more or less on schedule.
Thank you,
Genia and Dylan
End of public announcement. You may now resume your routine posting.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
Sonova-!
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
... I am not sure whether that's disappointment or anger. Disconcerting, either way.
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse
It's both. More disappointment, though.
Still, I hope things go well for the drafted author. Military service can be wrought with peril, but it can also be a surprisingly mundane affair. With any luck, a routine will quickly be hammered out and life can assume a more normal pace for you two again.
My Stories
Look at that. A full-grown woman pulling off pigtails. Her crazy is off the charts.
The Lone And Level Sands
or
History, Archaeology, and Other Trifling Matters
written by: Dylan Kennet and Genia Lukin
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-Percy Bisshe Shelley, 1818
Cynics of the world, unite!
Taking Care of the Multiverse