Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (12 page)

Markus tapped the pencil against his chin. “Some common themes: hymn and song, family, plus the two locations. The problem is that we must assume the inscriptions on the
inside
, that is, the sides that are hidden when all four Tarias are joined into a box, are irrelevant to discovering the location. ‘Tomb’ is tempting, but it’s on an inner side, and therefore misdirection. Further, without the other two, deciphering the meaning began to feel exceedingly futile.”

Matt nodded slowly, admiring the Taria creators’ ability to fool their secret’s pursuers—even now, nearly two thousand years later. They understood human nature. Give someone two pieces of a puzzle with ostensibly obvious final shapes—triangles, a square, a circle—and their minds can’t see past them. He marveled at the fact that the circle misdirection had been an afterthought, a final layer of protection on top of all the others.

“You disagree?” Markus probed.

“Oh, no, not at all. I was just wondering what gave anyone the idea that the Tarias had something to do with the Library of Alexandria.”

Markus’s rigid smile and unblinking eyes, the slight hesitation—he was considering whether to share more undisclosed information.

“So,” Joss interjected, “when’s the
real
party going to start? What’re we waiting for, exactly?”

No one responded.

Markus set his clipboard down on his lap. “Taria B was found sealed in a location inscribed with a particular date. This date is shortly after the only truly recorded destruction of the Library.” Matt raised a finger, but Markus cut him off. “That’s the only information I can share at this time.”

Matt scoffed at the absurdity. He’d know everything Markus was hiding after reading the Tarias. “But I can just-”

“Yes, of course,” Markus interrupted, “and whatever you learn while experiencing the artifacts are protected by the confidentiality and recompense agreement you signed in my office. It’s quite plainly illogical, but here we are.”

A hint of independent thought from Markus, Matt observed. A first.

“Understood,” Matt said, setting his eyes on the smooth surface of Taria B.

That old familiar buzz trembled in his head—the mental equivalent of salivating over a beloved food. He’d been playing it cool since Ostrovsky’s house, exuding a take-it-or-leave-it persona, and he’d grown bored, even agitated, with reading seats, utensils, the linty reservoir of paper money fibers in the bottoms of his pockets, coins, the omnipresent fragments of opal in his body. But this was no mind-filler read. Despite knowing all that had occurred in Alexandria, he had yet to personally meet any of the players.

“Well,” Matt began. “I’d prefer to wait until we reach the island and I have some privacy … but if you just want to break the ice, I guess I can quickly gather some basics, confirm your date and place. Up to you, Markus.”

Markus motioned to the Tarias on the table:
Help yourself.

Matt glanced at Joss as she shifted in her seat, eager eyes and smile. Markus sat staring as well. Matt had said “quickly,” but expected to spend at least ten minutes.

“You know,” Matt said, “it takes me a few minutes to get going, then to gather anything solid … so, maybe…”

Markus took the hint and moved to a nearby seat. Joss mumbled apologies while rifling through her bag for a magazine.

Matt pulled close the cloth bearing the shiny, perfect Taria B. He slid off a glove, glanced once more at Joss—now at least pretending to be engrossed in a magazine—and picked up the artifact, curling his fingers around it.

* * *

As far back as he could remember, the sensation of entering an imprint felt to Matt like rushing forward or backward, with a sharp sucking sound in the ears, a forced re-inventory of body parts, their positions and motion, the introduction of sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and the ubiquitous internal dialogue of some other person invading his head, overlapping with Matt’s own thoughts—like wearing headphones with a different song in each ear.

With the imprints of individuals who thought in images as opposed to words, the
head
part of the transition went much more smoothly, as if Matt had just walked late into a movie. The typical image thinker, upon encountering a familiar person, tended to go through a subconscious highlight reel review: this is my older brother, Chenyun, a jerk, our last conversation was negative, I wish he’d move to Taiwan—all in a flash of visual snippets. This played out like having a friend who’d seen the movie from the beginning, whispering in Matt’s ear whenever something occurred that required explanation: “They think this guy is the real killer, but the sister’s husband’s been acting suspiciously.”

Lately, Matt’s ability to move from reality to imprint and back had grown so smooth and effortless that he seldom felt an inkling of his former anxiety. Even with his caseload back home, he’d developed a technique for dealing with high-intensity objects: a tiny, bloody shirt, for instance. Reading from an object was no longer an all-or-nothing exercise, but could now be fine-tuned to Matt’s preference. Evidence recovered from the scene of a murder? Matt would virtually poke his head in and take a look around before opening the door any wider, like dipping a toe in a pool of unknown temperature. He’d more than once found himself dropped into the mind of a victim, violent murder in progress, and that was back when he still needed his timer to pull him out. In those days, it’d be too late to back out of the imprint—he’d committed himself to five minutes of that sort of torture.

But wary of Iris’s judgment (by way of her assigned proxy, Joss), and with the commotion of traveling, Matt had only ventured into less-than-enthralling imprints. Thus his cannonball-style plunge into the Taria with Joss right across from him, not to mention Markus seated nearby.

Lurching forward into the body, Matt bathed in the flood of input, a disorienting jumble of thoughts and senses that reminded him of the old days of reading. He even went through his former rituals—Dad’s info prioritization technique.

I’m female. Thirty-nine years old. My name is Supatra. I was born and currently live in Alexandria, Egypt, third year of Augusta Septimia Zenobia, our exquisite empress, with whom I’ll imminently speak.

I’m both disgusted and amused, leaning against a wall in the Serapeum, the temple of the manmade god, Serapis—a cunning unification of traditional Greek characteristics into two of Egypt’s most revered gods, Osiris and Apis. As if to say, “See, Egyptians? We have the same gods, though ours are even better.”

I like this Supatra already,
Matt thinks, and draws himself backward and downward, deeper into her unconscious memories.

“Hello, Steward,” says a voice in Patra’s head. Actually, it’s Patra’s voice, but her internal dialog ends there.

Matt senses something peculiar about her subconscious.

Oddly barren this deep. Superficial details only. She’s known as ‘Patra’ to most. An advisor, philosopher, translator—one of three appointed stewards of the Musaeum of Alexandria, the vast university complex which included the library, of which she was Head Librarian. And someone with access to Queen … excuse me,
Augusta
Zenobia!

Matt thrills at the rare, impending encounter with someone whose name had actually endured to the present day, though it remains curious this is the Taria’s most prominent imprint.

Patra is eager to speak with Zenobia, but she’s not particularly emotional
.

The fact implies the Taria holds no imprints more interesting than this moment in the Serapeum.

The thrilling life of a librarian—no less exhilarating two thousand years ago!

He wonders where on her person she has the Taria.

Don’t feel anything in her hands … Doesn’t matter right now.

He allows himself to float forward again, back toward Patra’s consciousness. In imprints, this was always the “look at me!” section, the parts demanding to be seen, felt, fully experienced. Back in the day, it was what trapped him inside a reading, each time his nervous system severed from his own body—only able to perceive the imprinter’s senses—until Matt was physically detached from the artifact.

No more.

His fist squeezed tighter around the Taria. He willed his ears to hear the jet’s hum, his nose to smell the leather. Nowadays, it was very likely he possessed the only central nervous system on Earth capable of interpreting input from four ears, two noses, four arms, four legs, and so on. Or at least, the only
human
central nervous system.

He considered sneaking a peek to see if anyone was staring at him, but thought better of it. Ostrovsky had caught him using his ability at the table, but he and Markus didn’t know just how vulnerable (or not) Matt was while engaged in a reading.

Releasing his body once more, he let his mind fully immerse into Patra’s, where he’d left off:
disgusted and amused…

I’m both disgusted and amused, leaning against a wall in the Serapeum. Obscured by a column and its flanking bushes, the small group in the courtyard cannot see me, but I can hear them. Our Empress, Zenobia—a woman who at first appraisal I’d lumped in with the myriad predictable, avaricious, foreign rulers—entertains and indulges a clutch of priests. I hope they’re finished soon … She’s only in Alexandria another two days. But these priests are likely amusing her even more than they are me.

“Augusta,” one of them says repeatedly, addressing Zenobia by her official title—equivalent to Empress or Queen—as he attempts to speak over his companions. “Augusta, it’s not a mere rumor-”

“Is that so?” Zenobia interrupts him, and the whole flock of prattling holy men fall silent. “You have firsthand knowledge of Emperor Antonius slaying his own brother?”

“Augusta,” the priest says breathlessly, his blessed ears not wishing to hear it spoken so bluntly. “I speak of tomorrow’s exhibition! The one in which the venerable Emperor will be mocked before thousands! It’s no rumor, but confirmed by the Governor himself. An open invitation has been circulating mouth to ear!”

“Really?” Zenobia says smoothly, her Greek tinged with a distinct Aramaic accent—a hallmark of the Palmyrene tribes from the northeast, where I first met her—her homeland. “Governor Cassius confirmed this? Is he attending?”

“Augusta?” Another priest, baffled.

I observe one of Zenobia’s courtiers appear from the colonnade, striding toward the Empress, official business painted all over. He disappears beyond the column before me just as he begins his scheduled announcement. “Her Majesty must bid you all farewell.”

“Let Cassius know that I hope to see him there,” a merry Zenobia says, and the priests stifle their gasps. “I look forward to the performance.”

She may be enjoying the priests’ anguish, but this is actually troubling news. With Augusta now coming, the little show, a silly political farce intended for a small audience of friends, may ignite unintended uproar. I told Kaleb it was unwise and dangerous. One would think I’d learn. As always, he derived a challenge from my caution. Somehow, I must persuade Augusta to not come.

“Supatra of Alexandria,” the courtier calls. “Daughter of Gaius of Alexandria and Avita of Meroe.”

I step from behind the column, see Zenobia, seated like a true queen in a temporary throne atop a plinth fashioned from stone blocks, and draped with gilded silk. As I walk to her, I notice where the blocks came from. The olive trees in front of every other column now sit on the ground.

Zenobia is a statue from the Old Kingdom, stiff and formal and gazing ahead to nothing as she dismisses the aide. I approach and kneel onto one knee, my key sliding between my legs, and I shove it aside.

There it is—the Taria.
Matt could feel it beneath her robes.
It’s some kind of giant key, hanging from her waist by a cord. Feels long though, much longer than the stone in my fist. “Keystone.”
Now the term made more sense.

“Rise, my beauty,” Zenobia says. I look up and the aide has already taken his leave. The Augusta’s face bears a warm smile, that of a friend. “Come, sit with me. Come close.” She points a manicured toe to the step below her leather-strapped feet, and then slides off her throne to join me on the lower level.

I climb the stone steps to her, careful to keep my head below hers, and take a seat. I say “Augusta” as I sit, avoiding her eyes.

“Please, Patra, look at me,” she says, placing a hand on my wrist. Her fingers are long, each one embellished with a gem-encrusted ring, her fingertips henna-dyed, with red wine nails filed to points. “When it’s only us, nothing has changed, understand?” She lifts my chin so I meet her eyes. At thirty-seven, her beauty is
more
astonishing
than
ever
, face painted up to evoke Cleopatra Philopator—who, in her day, strove to conjure the goddess Isis.

Visions of our prior meetings flash before me—the more modest accommodations of her land, Palmyra. Her husband before he was killed. The fun of teaching her back then—a Queen no one could imagine becoming Augusta of all these lands—and later, her son, my little Wahbi, only five when first we met.

“My Queen,” I begin, and I can see she wishes me less formal. It hurts her. “How is Wahbi?”

She laughs. “Like a weed! You wouldn’t believe how tall! He misses you. I would’ve sent for him, had I known we’d be here. Perhaps you’ll consider … resuming? From time to time, of course, as your work allows.”

“Of course, my Queen.”

I wonder how else Wahbi has changed. Upon the death of his father, the King, he inherited all titles, and is therefore the true Augustus. Though, at twelve, still too young to rule, a boy his age could rapidly decay in so potent a vat. And if the rumors are true, the Augusta will soon disembark, collecting Wahbi on her way to reconquer rebelling northern lands. Surely she’d charge him—at least symbolically—with the task of bringing those renegade lands back under Roman rule. It would be a message to Rome:
“Do you see? We’ve stabilized the region down here. No need to consolidate under a single ruler again!”
But everyone knew that the present state—an Emperor in the North, and one in the South—would last only as long as he in the North was too busy to address it.