The Dark Lord

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

In the Bruchion, Alexandria, Roman Egypt

"Is this how things usually turn out for you?" Thyatis hitched both thumbs into her girdle. She and Nicholas stood in a small, low-ceilinged office in the vast, confusing sprawl of the Bruchion-the consolidated governor's office, public park, royal palace and military headquarters of Rome in lower Egypt. The ancient complex filled nearly a quarter of the original city. This particular room was littered with scraps of papyrus and parchment, ratty-looking wooden desks and the faint, pervasive odor of scented balm. A shutter on the single high narrow window was jammed shut with old scroll cases and a scattering of lemon peels in one corner showed an impressive array of mold. Fruiting bodies sprouted from white fuzz, dark purple tips rising in tiny crenellated towers. The condition of the room indicated no one had actually worked in the chamber for weeks, perhaps months.

Nicholas' eyelid twitched at Thyatis' question and his scowl deepened. "Last year, when I was here, the tribune in charge of the Egyptian Office worked here." Angrily, he kicked a pile of discolored parchment aside with his foot.

"Just as well," Thyatis said, turning slowly in a circle. The humidity in the room was stifling. She squinted out into the hallway. There was another cubicle opposite-indeed, there were dozens of equally small, cramped offices packed into the warren of the old Ptolemaic palace-and Thyatis realized she could see the air in the passage as a faint haze. "We really don't have time to chase down the local authorities."

Nicholas grimaced, automatically smoothing the sleek points of his mustache. "You don't believe these rumors running wild in the streets? This is Alexandria! Someone sees a two-headed snake in their garden and they think the gods have returned! The Persians will never reach the city-Caesar Aurelian has six Legions with him! You have no idea how massive the fortifications at the eastern edge of the delta are."

"Hmm." Thyatis turned over some of the papers on the desk. The tan-colored parchment was covered with blackish-gray spots the size of her thumbnail. "Every official we've seen in this maze is either petrified with fear or smug as a cat thinking he'll move up when the Persians arrive. The soldiers in the port were the same way-the Romans grim and all-too-efficient, the Egyptians taking it easy, thinking they'll all have a body slave each and hands filled with the King of King's gold."

"They're fools." Nicholas shrugged. His confidence in the Empire was unshaken. "The authorities will remember who was loyal and who was not, afterward." He grinned at the prospect. "Some of the Eastern network must still be intact-I'll root around and see if I can find anyone to help us."

"A good idea," Thyatis said, stepping into the corridor. Two clerks hurried past, avoiding her eyes. When they were out of earshot, she said: "Come. It's dangerous to remain here. The Persians will have their own spies busy in the city. I'll get the others from the ship and find someplace quiet to stay on the edge of town. Meet me by sunset at the Nile Canal gate."

"Huh!" Nicholas perked up. Thyatis hid a smile-her loyal ally had grown increasingly impatient as the day progressed. He had a message pouch held inside his tunic with a leather cord. She'd considered lifting the packet, but thought-upon reflection-she preferred to see who merited such swift delivery. Who do you need to report to, my friend? One of Gaius Julius' agents, doubtless, waiting with equal impatience for your delivery.

"A good idea," Nicholas continued, looking relieved. "I've an idea of where to look…"

Tossing off a Legion salute, though Thyatis doubted the man truly regarded her as his commanding officer, Nicholas strode off. Taking her time, the Roman woman followed. She was hot and sweaty under the properly demure stola, hooded cloak and undertunic of a Roman matron, but haste was never rewarded at times like these. The invisibility of the mundane and expected was her friend, a moving blind in the chaotic urban forest.

At the end of the hallway, she found one of the little offices occupied by an elderly Egyptian in priestly robes. He was carefully copying a papyrus scroll onto fresh parchment. A faint scratching sound followed the smooth, effortless motion of his quill. The squared, angular shapes of modern Egyptian appeared, glistening and dark on the cream-colored page.

"Holy father? May I have a moment?"

"Yes?" he said, looking up in irritation. "What do you want?"

"I am looking for my cousin," she said, making a small bow. "A Latin officer-he worked down the hall, wore too much hyacinth perfume, liked lemons?" She offered an engaging, commiserating smile. "Mother never liked the way he smelled."

The old priest snorted in laughter. "Your cousin is gone-I do not know where. He and the other Romans like him packed their bags a day or two ago and went off in wagons towards the port." A faint gleam of satisfaction surfaced in the man's dark eyes, then subsided again. "I believe," the priest continued, seeming to ponder, "they felt continuing to work here might become dangerous…"

"Holy father, do you think the Persians will conquer Egypt?" Thyatis let her voice quaver a little when she said Persians.

"Many things could happen, child. But I am sorry-I do not know where Curtius and his friends went." He frowned and Thyatis felt a flash of irritation as she realized his thoughts were veering towards a young woman abandoned by her male relations! How scandalous!

"Thank you, father," she said, stepping out of the room before he started trying to help her. A bustling crowd of nervous men and women in the hallway swallowed her up. Thyatis let the traffic carry her through a wooded park filled with riotous wildflowers and into another, more public section of the complex. The tang of fear in the air tickled her nose and she listened to passing conversation with interest-an undercurrent of dread was in every voice.

I smell defeat, Thyatis realized, one eyebrow creeping up. No one will speak the words aloud, but disaster looms. Frowning now herself, she began to walk quickly, weaving through the clusters and knots of worried people in the passages. A noose draws tight around our time, grains spilling from a hidden clock. Thyatis took the steps out of the main building, down into a crowded, loud street two and three at a time. She felt a swift rush of elation, the air suddenly clear and sharp, the sun bright, the roar and mutter of the crowd exciting rather than depressing. I'd forgotten how good the hunt feels!

Standing in the shade of a winged granite ram twenty feet high, Nicholas watched Thyatis bound down the steps in front of the Bruchion and into the crowded avenue. For a moment she was still visible, cowled head bobbing above the crowd, then she turned a corner and was gone. He cleared his throat, and tried to shake away his anger with a twist of his shoulders.

"You're a fool," he muttered to himself, nervous fingers brushing the hilt jutting over his shoulder. Brunhilde was slung Legion-style on a cloth strap over his shoulder. Some calm returned with the touch, but he was still strangely on edge. The message pouch was safe and sound in his belt. "It's odd to have a woman centurion… but not that odd. Vladimir is odder. He's a panther in a man's shape…"

The muttered statement failed to relieve his discomfort. He respected her skill-she was deft with a blade, strong, quick-witted, clear-headed, sometimes she was even funny! — but a nagging sense of disquiet refused to leave his thoughts. I just don't trust her, he thought angrily. But we're on the same side, we both serve the Empire… does her skill offend me? Why shouldn't a trained woman approach my skill-and where was she trained? The laconic centurion was a mystery. A tall, firm-breasted, long-legged, redheaded mystery.

"Bah!" he snapped, embarrassed by his thoughts. "Enough of this. There's work to be done, my lad."

Without looking around, he strode back into the palace, following the red cloak of a passing Legion officer towards the governor's offices. A few moments later he entered a cavernous room filled with hunched, busy clerks, furiously scribbling copies of orders, levies, manifests. Nicholas felt a great calm flow over him, smelling and hearing the machine of the Empire in motion. Standing quietly beside the doorway, Nicholas let his gaze wander across the bent heads. He has to be somewhere… there!

Near the further door, one clerk had a tall stack of leather pouches beside his desk. Each pouch was dark with wear and closed with a winged silver clasp. Two Legion officers were talking quietly to the man. The Greek nodded briskly to the Romans, then accepted a set of parchments. Nicholas touched the packet in his belt again, then pushed away from the wall and walked quickly up to the dispatch master.

"You've charge of the cursus publicus?" Nicholas stopped beside the slave's desk, left arm on the wooden surface, cloak bunched to hide his belt.

"Yes," the Greek said, attention focused on the newly delivered letters. "Just put your messages there in the pile."

Nicholas reached down and seized an exposed ear. With irresistible gentleness, he turned the man to face him. "I have a privy message," he said softly, "from the Emperor, for his brother."

The clerk stared at him in amazement, rubbing his ear. "Fool! I'm the governor's secretary. I'll have you thrown into the street!"

"Will you?" Nicholas drew the message pouch out of his belt, turning the packet to show the dark Tyrian purple seal of the Augustus and God Galen, pressed with the Emperor's own signet, and bound in crimson twine. The Greek's expression congealed into white-lipped fear.

Nicholas' ill humor vanished; replaced by smug satisfaction to see the Greek quail at his words, lean face paling, nimble hands beginning to tremble. "I am the voice of the Emperor, carrying his word, from his own hand. Are you listening now?"

"Yes," whispered the clerk. His eyes focused on Nicholas with gratifying intensity.

"Good." The Latin straightened up, letting the packet drop casually. "I'm on another Imperial errand, my friend, so I leave this matter to you. I've heard the Caesar Aurelian is busy in the eastern delta. You see this reaches him with all speed. I've come straightaway from Rome, and neither the prince nor his brother will be pleased if you delay their correspondence."

"Of course not," the Greek managed to say. He picked up the letter with only the tips of his fingers. "A courier is leaving in a few hours. He'll take it."

Nicholas leaned down abruptly, bared teeth white in a sun-browned face. The clerk drew back, the corners of his eyes tightening in fear. "I'll come back later, to make sure the letter sped to Caesar on swift, sure wings. Mercury could do no better, I'm sure, than you will."

The man nodded eagerly, sliding the letter under a small stack of similar packets. "Yes, my lord. The prince will have it tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow? That's too soon. It's two or three days to Pelusium… Nicholas frowned, right hand knuckled against his side. "Where is Aurelian now? Is the prince on his way back to the city?"

The Greek stiffened again, but this time his eyes flitted around the room, particularly to the door leading deeper into the governor's domain. "Things aren't going well," the clerk whispered. "The Legions are trying to hold a line at Bousiris."

"On the Nile? The Persians are on the Nile?" Nicholas swallowed, throat suddenly dry. Half of Egypt fallen since we left Rome?

He was outside the palace, in the street, pushing his way through porters bent under wooden crates and leather-bound trunks before he was aware of moving. There was a man he had to see. Nicholas started to run, though muttering crowds pressed him on every side. The sun, already swollen orange from its descent into the smoke-haze over the city, was only a hand above the buildings to the west.

— |-

"Seven by seven," Betia chanted softly to herself, "makes forty and nine."

The little Gaul drifted along a side street in a quiet, residential neighborhood. A raw wool chlamys hid most of her petite figure and she carried a heavy wicker basket. Behind her, at the junction of the street and a small plaza, the corner of an old, crumbling temple was just visible. Seven streets and alleys fed into the plaza and Betia had taken her time while circling the crossroads. From the decrepit temple of Artemis, with its half-seen sanctuary and dusty stone goddess draped in bull testicles, she had chosen the seventh opening. The girl thought the placement of the goddess' temple particularly apt, as the smoke-stained, decaying facade of a Mithraic sanctuary squatted across the plaza. The seventh passage was little more than an alley, but Betia had passed into the fetid dimness without hesitation.

Now she counted doorways, measuring her paces against the Huntress' tread. At the ninth doorway she smiled-her count measured forty steps-and paused, setting the basket down and stretching in apparent weariness. Before her, a worn, curved set of steps led down into deep-set alcove. The dark stone of the door arch did not match the buildings on either side.

Bending down to lift up her basket, Betia looked up and down the passage, saw no one, and slipped down the stairs. The soiled gray wood of the door thudded hollowly under her small fist, but she was careful to knock only thirteen times.

The sun was wallowing down into the west, filling the sky with violent orange threads of cloud, by the time Nicholas managed to reach the Nile Canal gate. Thyatis was sitting, hands on her knees, upon a massive sandstone foot attached to a section of round, weatherworn leg. The rest of Pharaoh's body was gone, shorn off at the ankles by some ancient catastrophe. A matching statue across the canal was in better shape, retaining both legs and part of a pleated kilt. A crowd of local children in shapeless white-and-brown tunics sat on the ground, watching her feet intently.

"Hello, Nicholas." Thyatis did not look up.

The Latin slowed to a halt, sweating. The perfect stillness of the crowd of boys drew him up short and he closed his mouth, swallowing a tired-sounding "hello yourself."

A wooden box lay between Thyatis' legs, top knocked askew. Something gray-green rose from the opening, swaying from side to side, a glistening black tongue flicking in the air. Nicholas stiffened as a scaled hood unfolded, revealing a chilling pattern of gray-and-white spots. The cobra's body was the thickness of his forearm. Tasting the air, the snake's flat head drifted from side to side.

Nicholas looked down, saw something on the sand and realized there was a nervous white mouse sitting between Thyatis' bare feet. A bit of twine made a collar and a lead running to the Roman woman's ankle. The little creature lifted its paws, brushing a tiny, pink nose. The cobra's mouth opened in a silent hiss, sensing the motion, then uncoiled in a fantastically quick burst of gleaming scales and thick, corded muscle. Nicholas grunted, a flat-bladed knife flicking from his hand. The metal spun once, then the leather hilt smacked into Thyatis' reaching palm. With the same motion, she reversed the blade and flipped it lazily back to Nicholas.

The Latin caught the blade from the air, mouth open in surprise. There was a strangled hissing, and the box rattled violently as the cobra writhed, head caught between Thyatis' feet. The quivering throat of the snake was firmly clasped in the space beside each big toe. Unconcerned, the albino mouse continued to clean its face, twine drawn almost taut by the movement of the woman's ankle.

"Enough games for today, my friends," Thyatis said. The children scrambled up, speaking in whispers. Most of them were staring with equal fascination at the mouse, the snake, and Thyatis' smooth ankles. One boy approached the cobra, slipped a noose on the end of a stick around the head, then unceremoniously stuffed the reptile back into the box. The snake hissed furiously, body lashing back and forth, but could do nothing. Another child retrieved the mouse, slipping the little fellow into her grubby shirt. Thyatis stood up, rolling from one foot to the other, then bowed gravely to the assembled audience.

The children bowed back, then the eldest-his face twisted into a terrible, tortured grimace-pressed a collection of silver coins into the Roman woman's palm.

"Not a bad day's work," Thyatis said, grinning at Nicholas as she counted the coins into a pocket of her tunic.

Nicholas swallowed, sucked on his teeth, then said: "You're fast with that trick. Do it before, somewhere?"

"The knife, the snake, or the betting?" Thyatis gathered up her sandals, carry bag and sheathed longsword.

"Either-no, the snake. I've never seen one so… large."

"I have." Thyatis' good humor faltered, the corners of her mouth tightening. "There was only one this time." She grinned again. "The game is much easier when you can see them. The naga are from Taprobane, I think. Have any luck finding your friend?"

"Some." Nicholas grimaced, feeling queasy again at the news from the governor's palace. "Have you found a house for us?"

Thyatis nodded, noting his circumspection. Twilight filled the recesses of the gate and lamps were beginning to sparkle in the heavy, dark water of the canal. Soon the massive portals would be closed for the night, but while a smudge of light remained in the western sky a constant stream of dusty laborers, shopkeepers, priests and slaves flowed past, only inches away. She tilted her head, indicating the road leading out into the suburbs of the city. "I have. It's not far."

Beyond the gate, a flat plain stretched away to the south, crowded with gardens and single-story houses. An encompassing tropical gloom quickly engulfed them as they walked, barely disturbed by the intermittent lights of outlying buildings. Only a steady stream of workers trudging homeward into the city lit the road-every fourth or fifth man carried a pitch torch or lamp. No one else was heading out from the gate.

After ten grains, Thyatis turned into a side lane. Ahead, Nicholas saw the glitter of water and smelled the pungent, rancid aroma of cooling mud, rotting cane and birds.

"I found a place on the lakeshore," Thyatis said, voice smiling in the darkness. "Not very popular in the summer, I gather. Too many mosquitoes and flies. But there is a place to tie up a shallow-draft boat and a high wall with plenty of trees."

"Sounds private." Nicholas nodded in appreciation. He slowed his pace a little-the road was rapidly devolving into a muddy track. "I found two of my… ah… friends. One of them told me the Persians have broken through the defenses at Pelusium. The Caesar Aurelian is trying to stop them at Bousiris, on the main channel of the Nile."

He paused, waiting for Thyatis to comment, but she did not. "The other says there is a man at the Museum who knows everything about the Egypt of the old Pharaohs. Particularly those who ruled before the Greeks came. His name is Hecataeus, a Cypriot. I'm told he's a poet, but I find that hard to believe…"

"Hmm. The Museum holds the greatest library in the world." Thyatis' voice was soft in the darkness. She stopped. Nicholas could make out the bare outline of an arched whitewashed gate. "The others are already inside. Does this poet know any of the ancient languages?"

"Supposedly he's the best. Even with really old carvings." Nicholas shrugged, thinking of the restored parchment and the indecipherable glyphs ringing the wheels within wheels of the telecast. "Do you want to show him the… ah… the device?"

"No!" Thyatis chuckled, reaching over the gate to lift the locking bar. "We show no one what we're looking for." Her voice turned wry. "We probably shouldn't know what it looks like ourselves."

Keeping her fingers from shaking by an act of complete concentration, Betia unfolded the paper. The room hidden under the temple of Artemis was very old. Blackened stones matched the cutwork of the obscure entrance and the arch over the door only a pair of tilted slabs. She was sweating, moisture beading in tiny, shining drops on her neck, though the air in the room was cool, almost chill.

"This, my lady," Betia said, keeping her eyes focused on the parchment, "is what we have been sent to secure." The drawing of the telecast was stark in the lamplight, resting in a pool of light surrounded by darkness. "'The Emperor Galen, Augustus of the West, has determined one, perhaps two of these devices once dwelt in Egypt, possessed by the pharaoh…'"

"'…Nemathapi, long may his name be cursed.'" The words were clipped, each one given full weight by exacting pronunciation. A withered hand, heavy with rings of lapis and garnet, moved at the edge of the light and one of the sisters of the temple moved the parchment to the far edge of the stone table. The light, spilling from a hooded lantern, moved to keep the diagram illuminated. "A vapid little man, like all his kind, who wished only to live forever. And he will, for we will not soon forget him or his treachery."

Betia remained silent, kneeling on the cold floor, head bent. The time spent in service with the Duchess now seemed very pleasant, her training on the Island a fondly remembered idyll. Her cheek stung from where a brawny sister had clubbed her to the floor of the atrium. Apparently the daughters of the Huntress in Alexandria were no friends of Rome. The cold, forbidding voice in the darkness filled her with dread, for this was Egypt and some things here, she heard, had learned to walk, when they should rightly crawl.

"But you do not serve the Emperor Galen, do you child? Not if you bring me this foul news."

"No, my lady," Betia squeaked. "The task of finding the telecasts was entrusted to my mistress, the Duchess De'Orelio and she has sent her agent, Lady Thyatis, to see the device does not fall into the hands of the Emperor."

Dry, papery laughter echoed in the darkness. "De'Orelio? How droll. Yet you said sent to secure-your mistress Thyatis owns two masters? Has she come in the company of the Emperor's men, a guide, an advisor, a bed companion for their captain?"

"No." Betia stiffened and almost looked up. A powerful, calloused hand caught her neck and shoved her down. The girl bit her lip, mastering her anger and let herself breathe in, then out. A strange odor tickled her nose, but she ignored the slow pricking of gooseflesh on her arms. "She leads the Emperor's company-we are five: Thyatis, myself, an African, an Eastern soldier and a Walach. We arrived today, aboard the Paris, straightaway from Ostia port."

A lengthy silence followed her words and Betia became uncomfortably aware of silvery trails of sweat purling down her arms as she knelt.

At last the voice resumed, though a thread of anger suffused the clipped voice with growing heat. "The Duchess intends a game of shells, then, where your precious Thyatis vigorously searches, yet never finds. Or, perhaps, you expect us to conjure up some likely-seeming bits and pieces, a token for the Emperor, so the Duchess may claim success in her so-dutiful task?"

Swallowing to clear a dry throat, Betia said, "My lady, all my mistress bids me say is this: you should know what Lady Thyatis seeks, and do whatever is necessary to ensure she does not find the device! She does not wish to know where it might truly lie! A false trail could be laid, leading Lady Thyatis astray…"

Again, the silence dragged. Betia felt her calves begin to cramp, and shifted her weight subtly, pressing her heels against the smooth, glassy stone floor until the spasm passed.

"There is slight merit in such a suggestion," the voice said, simmering with anger. "What she does not know, she cannot reveal. Still, by my memory both Eyes are intact and well hidden." A whispering sigh followed. "Yet, where is the honor of noble Khem? Lost-corrupted long ago by foreign blood, by men seeking power and ancient secrets-and nothing built by human hands can remain hidden forever."

Cloth rustled and from the corner of her eye, Betia saw a withered hand enter the pool of lamplight and lift up the parchment. In the darkness beyond, the voice was only a dark, indistinct shape. "Child, listen. I wish, as do the old in their dotage, the duradarshan had been destroyed long ago or cast into the sea or shattered in Ptah's forge. Yet, they were not. Both Eyes are intact, whole, unmarked, unblemished. Nemathapi was not the only ruler to desire them-even though men had forgotten their true use and power-for even in his degenerate age they were, they are, a sign and symbol of the first kingdom."

The hand shifted, turning the parchment. Rubies and cabochons blazed on ancient fingers. "There are those in the city, even today, who might know where the Eyes came to rest. Tell your mistress-this formidable Thyatis you love so much-we shall send a swift party to move the Eyes to a place of greater safety. Too, my daughters will set a watch on those who might know the provenance of old Egypt's treasures."

The dim coal of anger grew stronger with each word. "This much," the dry voice said, almost spitting, "we will do for the Queen of Day."

Betia remained kneeling while the priestesses filed out of the room, carrying a litter and the woman hidden within. Some time after they were gone, she dared raise her head. The parchment remained on the table, glowing softly in the light of the single lamp. Tentatively, she picked it up. Across one corner, where a nail might lie while reading, there was a sharp new cut as if a swordblade had been drawn across the parchment.

The chill in the air did not abate and Betia left as quickly as she could.

— |-

A fragment of half-familiar sound caught Shirin's attention; some tone of voice or remembered trick of phrasing reaching her ear through the din and racket of the street. Cautiously, she looked up from her hamper, one hand checking the lace veil across her nose. The Khazar woman was sitting on the top step of a triumphal entryway into the Museion, a long, rectangular building within the greater royal district of the Bruchion. Dozens of other people loitered on the staircase, reading scrolls, eating their lunch, declaiming about religion and politics. Among them, she was happily anonymous, just another woman of the city with a bag of fresh vegetables, watching the constant parade of humanity passing in the avenue below. The top step allowed her to sit half in shadow, her feet in the hot sun.

Two figures were climbing the worn sandstone steps in haste, voices low.

Shirin expected to see the big Persian and his smaller, older accomplice. By luck, she had caught sight of the two men three days previous as they entered the Museion. Unhappily, they had vanished into the sprawling complex before she could follow. Her vigil since then, in as wide a variety of clothing and appearance as she could manage, had been fruitless. Unwilling to openly question the clerks and scribes working inside, she had settled in to wait and watch, hoping they would return.

She had not expected to look up, attention drawn by a carrying voice and see Thyatis almost in arm's reach. Shirin froze in surprise, hand still covering half of her face, eyes flitting away from the tall, broad-shouldered woman in traditional garments. The man at her side was shorter, whipcord lean, his tanned face distinguished by a pair of particularly sharp mustaches. Still muttering to one another, they swept past. As they did, Shirin heard a soft clink of metal and leather from beneath Thyatis' cloak and stole.

A sword or other blade, part of Shirin's mind commented casually. The Khazar woman turned, watching the two Romans disappear into the dim vault of the atrium. Colossal columns rose up on either side, framing the entrance into the outer courtyard. Shirin shook her head, blinking away surprise. "Get up, brainless fool!"

Gathering up her basket and tucking the veil behind one ear, she hurried into the dim corridor. Ahead, she caught sight of Thyatis' red-gold hair gleaming in the sunlight as she and her companion crossed a wide, marble-paved court where the booksellers plied a busy trade. The Romans weaved their way through hundreds of stalls and rugs, piled with all variety of artifacts and musty age-worn tomes. Determined to keep them in sight, Shirin matched her pace to theirs, though she cursed Thyatis' long stride and not for the first time.

"Well, my lord, perhaps we can do some business." Smiling broadly, the Cypriot stepped around his worktable, bowing politely to Nicholas. Despite the stifling heat, the scholar was dressed in a heavy Greek-style himation and tunic. The pervasive smell of mold and rotting papyrus throughout the Museion was held at bay by incense and a sluggish breeze from two tall, open windows. Citrus trees crowded the openings and glossy leaves brushed against the sill. "I am familiar with the name of Nemathapi," the reputed poet continued. "Do you have a… picture… of what you seek?"

"Perhaps," Nicholas said, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You've studied him, then?"

"Of course." Hecataeus' smile crystallized into a predatory grin. "I am accounted an expert in the old dynasties. I have learned to read the old forms of the traditional glyphs. You have something, don't you? I cannot conjure knowledge from the thin air! There is also the matter of compensation…"

Thyatis could feel the tension in Nicholas' back like heat from a fire. As before, she was dressed conservatively, pretending to be his wife or servant. Ignoring their bickering over money for a moment, she let her eyes drift over honey-combed racks-each square niche filled with a papyrus or parchment scroll. The shelves covered each wall from floor to ceiling and the table was piled high with more documents, unrolled for easy perusal, held down by a variety of statuettes. Quietly, she drifted away from the low argument between the two men, hands clasped inside her cloak.

Each scroll was labeled in Greek with a neat hand. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, seeing the vigorous slant of the letters and the careful precision of each parchment tag. She turned at the corner of the room, looking over the desk again. There were day-old, ring-shaped stains on the unfinished wood and a plate with moldy crumbs. A glossy surfaced cup sat beside the remains of breakfast, half filled with wine. Badly trimmed quills and goose feathers littered the floor. Nicholas had produced a paper while her back was turned, filled with a transcription of the glyphs and markings shown in the original depiction of Nemathapi's device. He and Hecataeus bent over the writing.

"…ah, only a fragment, I'm afraid. Still, I should be able to make some sense of this…" The poet's voice was very smug and Thyatis frowned. Something in the room was out of place-the dissonance bothered her, setting her teeth on edge. She continued her slow circuit, attention drawn again to the table. There were some fresh parchments laid out, the ink still newly dark. Hecataeus moved them aside as she watched, clearing a space to examine Nicholas' paper. Her nostrils flared a little, seeing the set of his hands, and ink smudged on his right index finger.

"Ah, now," the poet said, settling into his chair. "Some of these symbols are familiar to me…"

Thyatis stepped out of the room. The hallway was high-ceilinged and dark, spaced with unadorned pillars. Scroll racks filled every possible space, rising two and three times the height of a man. More small offices opened out between each pair of columns, though most of the doorways were crowded with hemp baskets filled with tightly rolled scrolls. An inordinate number of cats lazed about, sleeping on the papers or cleaning themselves on the windowsills. Humming tunelessly, Thyatis began to poke through the books, finding some of the papers so old they were glued together by the humidity. She rattled a basket experimentally, then extracted one particularly decrepit looking manuscript. Dust scattered, making Thyatis sneeze.

"What are you doing? Put that down!" A small hand seized Thyatis' wrist and the Roman woman looked down with interest at a tiny, dark-skinned woman hanging on her arm. "Guests are not allowed to touch the books!"

"I think," Thyatis said, lifting the little woman from the ground with one hand, feeling a flush of satisfaction at the smooth, powerful movement of her muscles, "this particular book is long gone. My name is Diana. What is yours?"

The little brown woman kicked Thyatis in the thigh with a sandaled foot. More dust puffed from her shoe. The Roman woman suppressed a smile. "Here," Thyatis said in a placating tone. "I've put the book back. And I'll set you down. Now, tell me your name."

Scowling furiously, the woman bounced back, then darted in to check the placement of the manuscript. Satisfied the document was back in its proper place, she squinted up at Thyatis, her hair a tangle of russet curls around a sharp, triangular face. "I am Sheshet, a curator of the Museum! Who let you in? What are you doing here?"

"Let me see your fingers," Thyatis said in reply, catching the woman's left hand with a quick movement. Sheshet yelped in surprise, but the Roman woman released her hand as quickly as it had been seized. "You labeled the scrolls in Master Hecataeus' office?"

"Yes…" The quick anger in the little woman's expression faded, replaced by a penetrating, considering stare. "You've come to see the Cypriot, then? An ode for your lover, I suppose." Sheshet sniffed insultingly. "He can be amusing, sometimes."

"No," Thyatis said, listening with half an ear to the poet droning on about high kingdom bas-reliefs. "My friend has a document he wants translated. A very old document, from Pharaoh Nemathapi's time…" Sheshet's expression froze and Thyatis caught a flicker of calculation in the woman's eyes. Well, well, she thought, they are surely a close family, here, all loving and trusting. "Ah, you've heard the name before."

"I have." Sheshet pursed her lips, drawing out the words. "Maybe." She rubbed two fingers together. Thyatis considered the woman's sandals-worn, patched-and her garments, no more than a threadbare tunic and stola with a frayed belt. Her only jewelry was a tarnished silver ring showing a star cradled in the arms of a crescent moon, her nails chipped and dark with ink stains.

"Let's talk quietly," Thyatis said, lifting Sheshet up and striding away down the passage. They passed more openings into crowded rooms, then at the end of the hall she found a quiet corridor leading off to the right. Miraculously, the passage was not completely filled with baskets and boxes, so she set the little woman down on a crate, where they could see eye to eye.

"You are very strong," Sheshet said, straightening her tunic. For the first time, the Egyptian woman seemed to see Thyatis and the Roman felt a chill under the penetrating gaze. "You're a soldier." She reached out and turned Thyatis' right wrist over. Her cracked fingernails slid over glassy scars. "Are you an archer?"

"Sometimes, when need drives," Thyatis said, evading the question. "Your dear Hecataeus knew Nemathapi's name already-you've heard it too-has someone else been to see him, asking about a device?"

The curator's eyes glinted in amusement. "How much will you pay?"

"Tell me," Thyatis replied, "and you'll have enough for more than parchment, papyrus, ink, quills…"

The little woman laughed softly, looking down at her grubby clothing. "You mean, buy fewer books? Spend something on myself?" Sheshet shook her head. "There's not enough money for such luxuries, not in this world."

"Gold, then," Thyatis said, producing a double-weight aureus from her belt. "Who came to see Hecataeus about the old pharaoh?"

Ink-stained fingers snatched the coin from Thyatis' hand and the Egyptian woman weighed the gold in her hand. "Unclipped. Very thoughtful of you. A Western coin." Sheshet flipped it over, running a thumb across the stamped image. "A commemorative of Emperor Galen's triumph over Persia-very fresh, unworn." The woman licked her lips, thinking. "You've come recently from Rome then, drawn pay from the Imperial Treasury. You are official, aren't you?"

"Yes," Thyatis said, leaning close. Sheshet did not flinch away, meeting her eyes with an amused expression. "Who came to see Hecataeus?"

"Persians," Sheshet said carelessly, pocketing the coin. "Two of them-a big man, bigger than you, with a horseman's waist and dangerous eyes. The other, though, he's been in the city so long he speaks like a Rhakotis native… they had a rubbing; charcoal on thin parchment. They were looking for a tomb." The curator paused, wiggling her fingers.

"How many books do you want to buy?" Thyatis said, both eyebrows raised in amusement. She produced another gold coin.

"How many books are in the world?" Sheshet laughed quietly. "The poet said he needed to consult a geographica, but they wouldn't leave. So he came into my office and asked me to find some references while they waited."

Thyatis nodded, remembering the stains on the old table. "They had wine, from unfired cups."

Sheshet nodded, shrugging her shoulders. "Hecataeus is cheap, he won't buy good cups for his guests."

"What did the rubbing show? Was there a picture, wheels set within wheels?"

"No." Sheshet's interested perked. "Just some old graffiti. Scratchings from a wall-the stones were large and well cut-you could see the pattern of the chisel strokes reflected in the rubbing." The woman brushed curls out of her eyes, squinting into an unseen, internal distance. "A bronze chisel… even in the course of one block, you could see the strokes shallowing as the blade dulled… Nemathapi lived long ago, when iron was scarce. His tomb perhaps, or a funerary temple." She paused. "But there were no chips of paint shown in the rubbing-I doubt some Persians would clean the surface first. A tomb entry chamber then, unpainted."

"What," Thyatis said grimly, "did it say?"

"Oh, that." Sheshet grinned, dark brown eyes lighting up. When she smiled, her sharp cheekbones and narrow chin transformed into something almost inhuman. "The tomb had been plundered and the thieves left a message for those who might come after, both to mock any rival finding an empty hole and to deflect the anger of the gods. They were clever, the men working in candlelit darkness, chipping away at stone laid down a thousand years before…"

— |-

The echo of voices, not far away, brought Shirin up short. Stepping quietly, she turned the corner of a hallway filled with rough-hewn wooden crates. Not more than a dozen yards away, she could see the tall figure of Thyatis speaking to a short, dark-haired woman. Gold glinted for an instant, then vanished into the Egyptian woman's hand.

So, Shirin sniffed, we're back to work, are we? Irritated, the Khazar woman scratched her nose, ink-dark eyebrows narrowed in calculation. But who are you working for? The Order? The Duchess? The Emperor… your handyman is a Roman soldier-that much is clear from his boots, his hair, the long-shanked stride. So, the Imperial government again. But how?

A momentary vision of Thyatis, her wild, ecstatic face streaked with blood and sweat, standing on glittering, hot sand filled Shirin's memory. Her stomach turned queasily, thinking of the slaughter and the delight so plain in her lover's eyes.

You won out, Shirin thought, half-remembering things she had heard about the Romans and their customs. You killed all those men and the Emperor set you free. He must have taken you back into his service. The unsettled, greasy feeling in her stomach began to gel like meat fat cooling on a skillet. Now you're hunting again and this time you're here, searching for the same thing the Persians want. Kleopatra's weapon. A calm sense of certainty entered her. Fragments slid together; the grim look on the Persian faces, the dust on their cloaks, their long journey down the Nile fitting into a recognizable pattern. Shirin squinted at the woman in the ragged dress. A clerk or scribe, working here, cataloging the books. Hmm. A race to find Kleopatra's… treasure? Tomb? Hiding place? Those Persians thought it was downriver, but it wasn't, so they came to the Library, following an ancient trail. I should tell Thyatis what I heard in the inn…

Relieved and satisfied with her reasoning, Shirin started to step out into the corridor. Then she stopped, eyes lingering on the set of her friend's shoulders, her head, an escaped curl of brassy hair peeking from under the woolen hood of the cloak. Her chest felt tight and a rush of emotion made it impossible to breathe. Strong arms to hold me, a dear head in my lap, a laughing freckled face, sparkling sea-gray eyes… not a mad, contorted face, so like my husband's. My friend, my beloved…

Suddenly weak, Shirin put her hand out against the gritty, sandstone wall. Memories of her children running on a sandy beach welled up, Thyatis sprinting after them, roaring like a lion. Everyone sitting under a piece of sail, sunburned, eating red-backed crabs caught in the shallows. Thyatis dancing beside a bonfire, a sea of ebony faces laughing and clapping in time to thundering drums. The sky dark with flamingos as countless flocks burst up from a marsh. Thyatis holding Avrahan and Sahul each under a scarred, sun-browned arm, face tense, waiting, listening for the lionesses creeping in the high yellow grass. Oh, lord of my fathers, she won't know my babies are dead!

Shirin put a hand over her mouth for a moment, tears squeezing out between tight eyelids. Sometimes this life was too much for her to bear. When she opened her eyes again, Thyatis had moved aside, one hand raised to the Egyptian woman's face.

Thyatis produced a knife, and laid the shining, oiled tip just below the curator's eyelid. "I'm getting impatient."

Sheshet bared her teeth, showing glittering white incisors. "You are hasty. They proclaimed their pharaoh, said they worked in her name, by her command. So she would take the ill-luck from their desecration and they would be spared."

"Her?" Thyatis' nostrils flared and the tip of the knife slid sideways, away from the curator's unblinking eye.

Shirin jerked back, feeling the sharp, angry motion of Thyatis' shoulders as a physical blow. The blade of a knife glittered in the dim light for a moment, then disappeared. Distressed, Shirin stepped back, into deeper shadows. Thyatis' stance radiated repressed anger and impatience. The Khazar woman drew the corner of her cloak across the bridge of her nose, leaving only the pale gleam of her eyes visible. Careless violence? A blade set to an innocent eye? You've made no friend in this one. Foolish Roman! The Egyptian woman's face, half seen over Thyatis' shoulder, was a blank, tight mask.

Is this truly you? Shirin felt sick. Not the friend, the gentle lover I thought you were?

The Khazar woman was no stranger to violence-she had killed, to protect herself-but this casual willingness to maim, or kill, turned her blood cold. I should turn away, and leave all of this behind-Persians and Romans alike… But she did not and continued to watch from the darkness.

"Kleopatra, seventh of that name." Sheshet's lips compressed and she began to radiate an encompassing sense of delighted satisfaction. "I knew immediately, as soon as I read the beginning of the invocation. Half-Greek, half-Egyptian, with the truncated spelling favored by the Ptolemies. Yes, the notorious, beloved Queen of the Two Lands broke into old Nemathapi's tomb and took away this device you're searching for. I've heard she liked trinkets. The older, the better."

Thyatis blinked. "But the Persians had already found his tomb… they were looking for hers?"

Sheshet nodded. Thyatis returned the knife to a sheath strapped to the inside of her arm. A tense knot swelled in her stomach. "Do you know…"

"…where Kleopatra's tomb is?" The curator shook her head slowly. "One of the great mysteries of Egypt, archer. Many men have looked, but no one has ever found her resting place."

"What about him?" Thyatis nodded towards Hecataeus' office. "What did he tell the Persians?"

"Him?" Sheshet whistled derisively. "He couldn't tell them anything. He can read the old languages, but he spends his time looking for naughty stories or poetry to pass off as his own, not for anything useful!"

"Good…" Thyatis produced another coin. "If the Persians come back, we were never here. Agreed?"

"Of course." Sheshet accepted the coin. "Three volumes in one day-the end of a long drought for me."

"Thank you," Thyatis said in a heartfelt tone. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Nicholas standing in the hallway, looking for her. "Good day, Mistress Sheshet."

"Good day." The Egyptian woman watched, curls clouding her face again, as Thyatis strode away down the corridor. "Good riddance," she whispered, rubbing her eyelid where the point of the knife had left a small indentation in her skin. "Stupid barbarian!"

Then she considered the heavy gold in her hand and a perplexed expression flitted across her face. "That Persian didn't pay me so much before… but he might now!" Cheerful at the thought of more books of her own, the little librarian slipped off into the shadows between the pillars.

"We'll need camels," Nicholas said in a soft voice, as they walked casually down a long, granite ramp leading onto one of the triumphal avenues bisecting the city. "Workers, shovels, picks, levers. Maybe a sled if it's too heavy to carry on a single camel."

"The poet had something?" Thyatis kept a pace behind and to one side, as a proper wife should. At the same time, she was ghoulishly amused; the position gave her a clear strike at the man's neck simply by lifting her arm.

"A fragment of a traveler's account-a lonely tomb in the desert, revealed by a passing sandstorm. The sealed door bore the stamp of the Ptolemies-and all the other tombs are accounted for-all save one… the last one."

"The notoriously famous Kleopatra," Thyatis said, pretending mild surprise. "How romantic. You think the account is real? Hecataeus didn't strike me as being reliable…"

"He isn't." Nicholas grinned over his shoulder at her. "He's careless. Someone else had gotten to him first, asking the same questions. Guess who?"

"The Persians," Thyatis replied, feeling her neck prickle. She kept walking, listening with half her attention to Nicholas. Someone watching us? The feeling was very strong. Someone I know? It was an effort to keep from turning abruptly and staring. The avenue was crowded, with shrill chanting peddlers standing on the elevated bases of obelisks marching down the center of the thoroughfare. Wagons rumbled past, dogs barked furiously in the alleys, merchants were shouting from the storefronts. Every scrap of pavement was covered with rugs laden with trinkets, little statues, gewgaws, "real rubies from Serica," pens of chickens and goats. Thyatis let her eyes lose focus, her breathing slow to match her pace.

"The Persians," Nicholas continued with grim humor, barely audible above the din. "They braced him about Nemathapi before, but he couldn't help. This time they brought some scratchings from a tomb they found down in Saqqara. Now they were looking for Kleopatra's treasure, thinking something 'like a wheel' would be hidden there. Well, he had no idea where the tomb might be and he told them so. They weren't pleased, but went on to the next antiquarian on their list."

A familiar silhouette darting through the crowd drew her attention and Thyatis blinked, focusing, and saw the little librarian moving swiftly through traffic on the other side of the boulevard. The little woman dodged behind a phalanx of chanting monks wreathed in incense from swinging censers and carrying a bored-looking calico cat on a golden pillow. Thyatis squinted, rising up on tiptoe, but Sheshet had vanished behind a moving wall of silk umbrellas. When the procession passed, there was no sign of the little Egyptian.

Off to buy those books already, Thyatis thought, shaking her head in amusement. The feeling of being watched lingered.

"Fortunately for us, the poet had a nose for profit," Nicholas continued, unaware of Thyatis bobbing up and down behind him like a giraffe in a tall stand of acanthus. "He started to apply himself, rummaging through the books and histories. Wanted to find the tomb himself, I'd wager, though he only had a hazy idea of what might be hidden there. I'd swear from the way he acted it was the first time he'd ever found anything in that mausoleum! He showed me the account-crabbed on the back of a lading document." The Latin patted his belt and Thyatis heard stiff paper rustle.

"How much did Hecataeus want for his fabulous discovery?"

Nicholas glanced sideways at the woman, a smirk dancing on his thin lips. "Not much," he said.

"What do you mean?" Thyatis picked up her pace. "How much did you give him to keep his mouth shut?"

Nicholas laughed sharply and the Roman woman raised an eyebrow at the ugly sound.

"He gave me his back," he said softly, "and I paid him in steel-five inches tempered-right at the base of the skull."

Thyatis felt a peculiar sense of dislocation, as if she walked beside the Latin soldier and also looked down upon him from a height. She felt dizzy for a moment, then the sensation passed. "What did you do with the body?" her mouth asked automatically.

"Wrapped in a robe and out the window into the garden behind a hedge." The corners of Nicholas' eyes crinkled up as if he laughed, or smiled, but nothing humorous shone in his face. "Anyone who happens to see him will think he's asleep. At least, until he starts to smell."

"We'll have the money for your camels and workers, then." The queer double vision passed and Thyatis felt herself whole and chilled by the man's careless, offhand murder. His action reminded her too much of her own threat to the little librarian and she felt a little ill. Her thoughts spun for a moment, then settled. The poet can't have found the real sepulcher. Can he? The prospect seemed remote. "Good. How far away is the tomb?"

"Not far," Nicholas said, sounding eager. "The merchant was traveling on the western shore of Lake Mareotis, on his way to the coast with a string of camels. When the storm had passed, he walked for a day northeast to reach the village of Taposiris, which is only a day's ride west of the city. But we can reach the area faster by crossing the lake with a barge."

Thyatis nodded, suppressing an urge to finger the amulet around her neck. The prince's bauble was cold and still and she prayed to the Hunter it would remain so. Otherwise, she thought, Nicholas will have to be paid, just as he paid poor Hecataeus.

Thunderheads grumbled in the east and the air had acquired a heavy pearlescent quality as afternoon progressed. Yellow cone-shaped flowers spilled over the garden walls, filling the heavy air with a pungent, cloying aroma. Two figures turned into the lane, walking quickly, heads bent in conversation. At the end of the lane, the muddy track vanished into the flat, glassy water of Lake Mareotis. In the green shadows under the reeds fringing the lake, a quiet, hooded figure watched the man and woman stop at a wooden gate. The man-thin, nervous face radiating impatience even at this distance-rapped sharply on the wood. A moment passed and the woman squared her shoulders and looked around curiously.

The watcher hidden in the reeds froze, lowering her head. Midges and gnats crawled on brown arms and the zzzing of patrolling mosquitoes was very loud. Time dragged, measured by the tiny, prickling movements of the gnats as they crept across smooth, tanned flesh.

Creaking hinges signaled the gate swinging wide. Nicholas and Thyatis disappeared through the archway and the sound of brisk commands and sudden, unexpected activity filtered through the humid air. In the reeds, the watcher ventured to lift her head enough to see the gate again. The tall, redheaded woman was standing inside the arch, the portal nearly closed, watching the lane. Again, the watcher grew entirely still, slowing her breathing.

A grain passed, then two, then-after fifteen grains had slipped through the glass of life-Thyatis shook her head in disgust, and closed the wooden door.

In the reeds, Shirin breathed out a long, slow gasp of relief. Her arms were trembling, on the verge of cramping, and her shoulders rippled with disgust. I hate mosquitoes, she thought viciously. Lord of my fathers, strike them all down! Shuddering again, the Khazar woman crushed the carpet of midges and gnats on her arms with her palms, leaving a smeared, greasy, red-streaked paste. For the moment, she ignored the bugs rustling in her hair and slipped through the forest of reeds to the edge of the lake. A tiny trail of flattened mud led off along the shore.

Keeping a wary eye out for crocodiles and snapping turtles, Shirin padded towards the next break in the reeds. Something had happened and she suspected the Romans would be moving soon. Where are you going? Shirin wondered, the image of the redheaded woman clear as crystal in her memory; Thyatis' face framed by the half-closed gate, a curl of red-gold hair fallen over gray eyes. Did the Egyptian woman tell you something useful? Her full lips twisted into a frown. What was the sleek, dangerous man doing while you were talking to her? Perhaps the other Roman had found something in the archives. Still moving cautiously, she turned onto another path between the huge, softly trembling reeds and moved inland. I think I'll need a horse… no-a camel for heavy sand or sharp stones.

Veils of falling rain swept across the surface of the lake, alternately revealing and obscuring whitewashed houses along the shoreline. The growl and crack of thunder rolled among the clouds, though the storm itself had moved away to the north. Squatting in the bottom of a long canal boat, Patik waited quietly, water streaming from the brim of his leather hat. Artabanus crouched behind him, coughing softly in the damp, wrapped in a woolen cloak and a conical hat made of straw. Two more of the Persian soldiers were behind him, asleep, or nearly so, under their cloaks.

A hundred yards away, the edge of a stone wall reached down to the water's edge. Patik was watching the opening, waiting patiently in cover. Somewhere to the west, the clouds parted, letting the sun blaze down across the rainy sky. The Persian commander blinked, dipping the brim of his hat to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. Coruscating rainbows shimmered across the falling rain, gilding the reeds and the brassy surface of the lake.

"There!" The little Egyptian woman in the prow of the boat pointed with a thin, bird-like hand. A blunt-nosed boat edged out from behind the crumbling wall. Patik tensed, one hand sliding along the haft of his oar. The curator turned, grinning brightly at him. Her glossy, water-charged hair was plastered to a narrow skull. As far as the Persian could tell, the woman hadn't even noticed the torrential downpour. "Do you see her?"

Patik nodded, eyes narrowing. One of the figures poling the heavy barge was a woman, bright hair bound up behind her head. She and a huge African were pushing the boat away from the shore. Six or seven Egyptians in straw hats and dun-colored robes helped with paddles. A pair of camels stood uneasily in the center of the barge, hemmed in by piled supplies. "I see her. She's a Roman agent?"

Eyes glinting mischievously, Sheshet nodded. "They know where the tomb is. Follow them and you'll have your prize. Now-give me the rest of my money."

The corner of the big Persian's left eye gained a slight tic at the avaricious expression in the little Egyptian's face, but he drew a purse from his belt and scrupulously counted out five heavy silver coins. The curator examined each one, turning the disks over in her hands, holding them up to the light-fading now as the clouds rolled on, obscuring the sun. Artabanus' fingers moved to a knife at his side, but Patik shook his head slightly and the mage subsided. "Satisfied?"

Sheshet nodded, looking up at the Persian with a queer, knowing expression. "You're an honorable man, aren't you?" Her voice was very soft, almost drowned by the renewed patter of rain on the water and the sides of the boat. Patik did not respond, though the line of his mouth tightened a fraction. "You are. A hard-won lesson, I think."

Shaking her head in compassion, she caught his hand, squeezed it gently, then scrambled the length of the boat, hopping over Asha and Mihr, and then to shore. Both of the soldiers lifted the brims of their hats, peering curiously at Patik.

"Let's go," he said, ignoring the questioning expression on Artabanus' face.

All four bent to their oars and the long skiff slipped out from the reeds, surging across the open water. Ahead, nearly obscured by mists rising from the blood-warm water of the lake, the Roman barge plowed steadily west. A moment later, a second boat, this one holding Tishtrya, Amur and their own supplies, followed, gliding out from the reed forest like a ghost.

A door panel shuddered under a powerful blow. Hinges creaked and a stout wooden bar twisted in its braces. Outside, a harsh voice spoke sharply. The door slammed open, bar shattered, hinges torn from the mud-brick wall. With a loud bang, the panel flew across the room and crashed into a wicker screen. A tall, powerfully built figure ducked under the lintel. Features obscured by a deep hood, the intruder strode noiselessly through the house. The room darkened as it passed. A long cavalry blade, etched with spidery runes, gleamed in one hand. A second figure, much like the first, followed. Neither spoke as they quartered the dwelling, finding the remains of a hasty meal and evidence of a recent departure.

A rear door, standing open, led them out onto a grassy sward leading down to the lakeshore. The taller of the two bent beside the muddy verge, examining trampled turf and boot prints. An aura of anger radiated from the creature as it stood, face still in shadow. The rain had tapered off, though the dark woolen cloaks of the two figures were glossy with lanolin, easily shedding what moisture dripped from the leaden sky.

"They go upon the waters," the taller figure said in a hollow, cold voice.

The other nodded, turning to reenter the house. "We shall go around," it said. "But swiftly."

"As the spirits quarter the land," answered the first, anger curdling in its terrible voice. "Beyond the light of the sun."