the master's firm leadership had quelled the discontent. But death would soon claim his protector and he feared open revolt might follow.
'There is no guarantee I'll succeed you.'
'You underestimate yourself.'
'I respect the power of our adversaries.'
A silence washed over them, allowing the larks and blackbirds beyond the window to announce their presence. He stared down at his master. The old man wore an azure smock besprinkled with golden stars. Though the facial features were sharpened by his approaching death, there remained a vigor to the old man's lean form. A gray beard hung long and unkempt, the hands and feet constricted with arthritis, but the eyes continued to glisten. He knew twenty-eight years of leadership had taught the old warrior much. Perhaps the most vital lesson was how to project, even in the face of death, a mask of civility.
The doctor had confirmed the cancer months ago. As required by Rule, the disease was allowed to run its course, the natural consequences of God's action accepted. Thousands of brothers through the centuries had endured the same end, and it was unthinkable that the master would soil their tradition.
'I wish I could smell the water's spray,' the old man whispered.
The seneschal glanced toward the window. Its sixteenth-century panes were swung open, allowing the sweet aroma of wet stone and verdant greens to seep into his nostrils. The distant water roared in a bubbly tenor. 'Your room offers the perfect venue.'
'One of the reasons I wanted to be master.'
He smiled, knowing the old man was being facetious. He'd read the Chronicles and knew that his mentor had ascended by being able to grasp each turn of fortune with the adaptiveness of a genius. His tenure had been one of peace, but all that would soon change.
'I should pray for your soul,' the seneschal said.
'Time for that later. Instead, you must prepare.'
'For what?'
'The conclave. Gather your votes. Be ready. Do not allow your enemies time to rally. Remember all I taught you.' The hoarse voice cracked with infirmity, but there was a firmness in the tone's foundation.
'I'm not sure that I want to be master.'
'You do.'
His friend knew him well. Modesty required that he shun the mantle, but more than anything he wanted to be the next master.
He felt the hand within his shiver. A few shallow breaths were needed for the old man to steady himself.
'I have prepared the message. It is there, on the desk.'
He knew it would be the next master's duty to study that testament.
'The duty must be done,' the master said. 'As it has been done since the Beginning.'
The seneschal did not want to hear about duty. He was more concerned with emotion. He looked around the room, which contained only the bed, a prie-dieu that faced a wooden crucifix, three chairs protected by an old tapestried cushion, a writing desk, and two aged marble statues standing in wall niches. There was a time when the chamber would have been filled with Spanish leather, Delft porcelain, English furniture. But audacity had long been purged from the Order's character.
As from his own.
The old man gasped for air.
He stared down at the man lying in an uneasy slumber of disease. The master gathered his wind, blinked a few times, then said, 'Not yet, old friend. But soon.'
FOUR
6:15 PM
MALONE WAITED UNTIL AFTER THE AUCTION STARTED BEFORE slipping into the hall. He was familiar with the setup and knew bidding would not begin before six twenty, as there were preliminary matters of buyer registration and seller agreements that had to be verified before any money began changing hands.
Roskilde was an ancient town nestled beside a slender saltwater fjord. Founded by Vikings, it had served as Denmark's capital until the fifteenth century and continued to exude a regal grace. The auction was held downtown, near the Domkirke, in a building off Skomagergade, where shoemakers had once dominated. Bookselling was an art form in Denmark. There was a nationwide appreciation for the written word-one Malone, as a lifelong bibliophile, had come to admire. Where once books were simply a hobby, a diversion from the pressures of his risky career, now they were his life.
Spotting Peter Hansen and Stephanie near the front, he stayed toward the rear, behind one of the stone pillars supporting the vaulted ceiling. He had no intention of bidding, so it mattered not if the auctioneer could see him.
Books came and went, some for respectable numbers of kroner. But he noticed Peter Hansen perk up as the next item was displayed.
'Pierres Gravees du Languedoc, by Eugene Stublein. Copyright 1887,' the auctioneer announced. 'A local history, quite common for the time, printed in only a few hundred copies. This is part of an estate we recently acquired. This book is very fine, leather-bound, no marks, with some extraordinary prints-one is reproduced in the catalog. Not something we normally bother with, but the volume is quite lovely, so we thought there may be some interest. An opening bid, please.'
Three came fast, all low, the last at four hundred kroner. Malone did the math. Sixty dollars. Hansen then weighed in at eight hundred. No more bids came from the other potential buyers until one of the representatives who worked phones for those unable to attend called out a bid of one thousand kroner.
Hansen seemed perturbed by the unexpected challenge, especially from a long-distance bidder, and upped his offer to 1,050. Phone Man retaliated with two thousand. A third bidder joined the fray. Shouts continued until the bid soared to nine thousand kroner. Others appeared to sense there might be something more to the book. Another minute of intense bidding ended with Hansen's offer of twenty-four thousand kroner.
More than four thousand dollars.
Malone knew Stephanie was a salaried civil servant, somewhere in the seventy- to eighty-thousand-dollar-a- year range. Her husband had died years ago and left her with some assets, but she was not wealthy and certainly not a book collector, so he wondered why she was willing to pay so much for an unknown travel log. People brought them into his shop by the box, many from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a time when personal accounts of faraway places were popular. Most sported purple prose and were, by and large, worthless.
This one clearly seemed an exception.
'Fifty thousand kroner,' the representative for Phone Man called out.
More than double Hansen's last bid.
Heads turned and Malone retreated behind the pillar as Stephanie whirled to face the phone bank. He peered around the edge and watched as Stephanie and Hansen conversed, then returned their attention to the auctioneer. A moment of silence passed while Hansen seemed to consider his next move, but he was clearly taking his cue from Stephanie.
She shook her head.
'Item is sold to the telephone bidder for fifty thousand kroner.'
The auctioneer retrieved the book from the display stand and a fifteen-minute break was announced. Malone knew the house was going to take a look at Pierres Gravees du Languedoc to see what made it worth more than eight thousand dollars. He knew the Roskilde dealers were astute and unaccustomed to treasures slipping past
