The Dark Lord (61 page)

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...