Wade and the Scorpion's Claw (7 page)

“Leathercoat mentioned all the computers that the Order has,” I said. “They probably have their own satellites in orbit.”

“I'd like to put him in orbit,” said Lily.

Becca nodded. “After I do.”

Twenty minutes later, we reached the Asian Art Museum. It was a large, imposing structure, a kind of Greek temple on one side of a large grassy square. Banners featuring its current exhibits flapped above the entrance as if to beckon us in.

Wondering what we might learn about the tile that, small as it was, had already claimed a life, we made our way up the wide steps to the front doors.

We took one last look around, then entered the museum.

E
ven before we paid, Becca made a beeline for the information counter. It was a glass-topped desk staffed by two men in muted jackets with name tags pinned to them. She leafed through brochures and maps of the different collections. She'd already told me she collected brochures from places she visited.

“You get a lot of information from them,” she'd said.

Dad paid student prices for us, full for him, all in cash.

I glanced out the door. Darrell did, too. The early-afternoon sun was emerging from behind the clouds and flashing off the puddles dotting the square.

“Changeable weather, all right,” he said. “It almost looks nice.”

“So do you,” I said. “Almost.” He shoved me.

Becca glanced up from her museum map and pointed to the main staircase. “Third floor is where the Chinese galleries are.”

We headed up.

“If I remember, the dynasty of Ming emperors ruled from around the thirteenth century through the sixteenth, certainly during the time Copernicus lived,” Dad said.

“Fourteenth to the sixteenth.” Becca squinted closely at the brochure's tiny type. “From 1368 to 1644. The Ming court was said to be one of the most advanced in its arts and weapons.”

“Did Copernicus ever make it to China?” Darrell said, hiking up two steps at a time. “Dad, do you know?”

“I don't think it's in his biography,” he said, “but then neither are a lot of things we're finding out. There were trade routes, though.”

“I could look it up in three seconds,” said Lily. “But I don't want to. Wasn't there something called the Slick Road?”

“No,” I said.

“The
Silk
Road was what they called the trade route from China to Europe,” said Becca. She flipped the brochure over. “People in Italy, Portugal, and Spain traded silk and spices and goods with China from Marco Polo's time on. It was a big business when Copernicus lived.”

“Is all that in the brochure?” I asked.

“Part of that was my very own, and I own all the rights.” She smiled, then lowered her voice. “I bet if I can figure out the key words, the diary will tell us exactly where Copernicus traveled.”

And where we'd have to follow him and his Guardians.

With each step we'd taken so far—to Berlin, Bologna, Rome, Guam, and every place in between—we'd discovered more and more about the great astronomer. The shadows of his life were clearing, mist by mist. It was no wonder he'd seemed so real in
the dream
.

Lily spotted the Ming galleries first, and zipped ahead of us.

The polished floorboards reflected the soothing overhead lights, and the quiet, nearly deserted rooms—featuring statues, pottery, scrolls, and carvings of wood, bone, and ivory—were strangely calming.

Becca felt it. I could tell by the way she relaxed her wounded arm. She knew, as we all did, that the Order was out there waiting for us. How could we not? But for the moment, being in the museum comforted us. It was full of the aura of caring for the past as if it were—as we knew it actually
was
—a living thing. It seemed pretty obvious, as we walked into the galleries, that the relic quest was drawing us in again.

“Let's ask him,” Darrell said, nodding toward a young man with a badge on his blazer who strolled slowly through the gallery.

Dad went right over to the guard. “Excuse me. Is it possible to talk to a curator? We have a couple of questions about Ming artifacts.”

The guard looked at his watch. “I think Dr. Powell is around this afternoon. Hold on.” He went to a box on the wall, opened it, and pressed a few buttons on a keypad. He spoke into the receiver, listened for half a minute, then hung up. “She'll be right up.”

“Thank you,” said Dad. “That would be great.”

But the moment I went for the tile in my pocket, Darrell snagged my sleeve. “Whoa, bro. We can't let anyone see the original. It's too valuable. Let's trace it instead. In the notebook.”

“Good thinking,” said Becca.

“Oh, I know,” Darrell said, taking my notebook and a pencil from my bag and tracing the tile carefully on the page opposite my latest notes. He tore the page out.

“You're quite the artist,” Becca told him.

“It's a gift I share with the world—”

“Hold on.” Dad tugged us sharply behind a display of tapestries. “I just saw—”

“Leathercoat?” asked Lily.

“No, that acrobatic fellow from the airport,” he whispered. “The man who was making the baby laugh. Why would he be here?”

“At the same time we are?” whispered Becca. “Did he just see us?”

“I don't think so,” Dad said as a young woman in a trim blue suit walked across the gallery toward us. “I'm going to find out what he's doing in the museum. Wait here with the curator. I'll be right back to talk with her.” Dad slipped away from us and walked quickly to the end of the gallery, peeked around the opening, then slid into the next room and stepped slowly across the floorboards.

“Just like a secret agent,” Darrell whispered. “Go, Dad.”

I didn't like it. “Is this just random? The guy from the airport is suddenly where we are? Because I have to say, I don't think so.”

“Your dad will figure it out,” said Lily.

Becca raised her hand. “Here's the curator.”

The young curator came over to us. Her name tag read
Tricia Powell
. “Was that your father I just saw?”

“He'll be right back,” said Lily. “But we have some questions.”

“Okay,” she said brightly. “How can I help you until he returns?”

Everyone looked at me because I had the tracing in my hand.

“Um . . .”

“Yes?”

It was so hard to come up with an outright lie.

Not only hard to think up the words, but hard to say them to a stranger. I knew before the relic quest was over, I'd probably be much better at it than I ever wanted to be. But if a fib got us closer to a relic—and Sara—it was worth the risk.

“We found this drawing in my uncle's stuff when he died,” I said, handing the tracing to the curator. “We wondered what it means. It looks sort of Chinese maybe, but we don't know for sure.”

As she studied Darrell's suddenly awful tracing, I felt like a first grader trying to pull one over on his teacher. What I didn't expect was the look of total astonishment on her face.

“How did you get this?” she asked me.

“Um . . .”

“Like Wade said, it was in our uncle's stuff,” Lily said.

“Uh, no,” the curator said sharply. “And I didn't ask
where
you got this, I asked
how
. This is obviously not a drawing. It's a tracing. Did your uncle do this, or did you?”

She was smart. Knowing it was a tracing meant that she guessed we had access to the original.

“Uh . . .” I had nothing.

“Well, tell me, then, who exactly was your uncle?” she asked.

“A . . . collector,” Becca said. Given Uncle Henry's antique-jammed Berlin apartment, that was not a lie at all. “He lived in Berlin, Germany. He died last week.” Also not a lie.

“I'm sorry,” the curator said. “Very sorry for your loss. But . . .” She shot a look at the security guard and frowned. “Follow me.”

I glanced around. Dad wasn't anywhere in sight. I didn't want to leave the spot where he'd left us, but the curator walked only into the next gallery, so we followed.

She stood next to a tall display case housing four items on different levels. On the top sat a rectangular box about seven inches long by five inches wide and four or so inches deep. It was made of shiny ceramic. In the center of the lid were six round tiles and a gap where a seventh tile was missing.

The tiles were nearly identical to the tile in my pocket.

“You see?” Tricia Powell said. “Your tile appears very similar to the others in this piece—so similar, in fact, that I think I'll need to speak with your father about how you really came by this tracing.”

We gaped like idiots until Becca pulled herself together. “Can I ask you some questions first?” she said in her friendliest voice. “Then we'll tell you everything. Promise.”

Tricia Powell folded her arms. “You know, I really should . . . but okay. You can ask me one question.”

“One question?”

“One.”

Becca swallowed. “Okay, here goes.
What
kind of box comes from
where
in China and was made
when
by
whom
to show designs that mean
what . . .
exactly?” She smiled hopefully at Dr. Powell.

Ha! I hoped the curator thought Becca as adorable as I did just then.

I guess she did, because she glared for a minute, then laughed despite herself. “Okay, that was one
really
long question! First, why don't you read the label, and we'll take it from there.” She stepped back from the display case.

The label read: