restful sight and he was enjoying it when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Flojian rode into the front yard on a dusky mare. Several minutes later Toko opened a door and Flojian strode into the sitting room carrying a glass of wine and a candle.
“Good to see you again, Silas,” he said, falling into a chair. “I thought the ceremony went well yesterday. Thank you for your help.”
“I thought so, too. We’ll miss him.” Actually, no one would miss him, and they both knew it. “I wanted to be sure you were all right.”
“I’m okay,” said Flojian. He tried to smile, but there was an element of pain in the expression. “My father and I weren’t really that close. I don’t find myself regretting what I’ve lost so much as what I never had.” He used the candle to light the lamps in the room, and then set it in a holder. “But I don’t guess there’s much help for that now.”
“I heard an odd story today,” said Silas, rearranging himself in his chair. “One of my students thought your father owned a Mark Twain.”
I Flojian sipped his wine. “I’m surprised you know about that,” he said. “But yes, it’s true.”
The room chilled. Silas stared at the younger man. It was a moment before he found his voice again. “How long did he have it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” Whatever his drawbacks, Flojian was not stupid. “How could you not know?”
“It’s easy. He didn’t tell me. Refused to talk about it. You know how he was.”
“May I ask where he got it?”
“I don’t know that either. I asked my father that question and he said it was of no moment, and that’s all he would say. Listen, Silas, I only found out about this a couple of days before he died. I didn’t know there was anything like that around the house.”
“It’s Connecticut Yankee, I understand.”
“That’s right.”
Silas was essentially a patient man and had never been given to violence. But on that occasion he wanted to seize his host and shake the answers from him. “Where is it now?” he demanded.
Flojian stiffened. “Your tone almost suggests that you have a proprietary interest.”
“Damn it, Flojian. Everybody has a proprietary interest in something like that. You can’t keep it to yourself.”
“As a matter of fact, I didn’t.” The comment hammered down on the still evening air. “Father bequeathed it to Chaka Milana. The young woman you were talking with yesterday.”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“I’m sure I do not know. She was Arin’s sister. You remember. Ann was the artist who was lost on the expedition.”
“I remember.”
Flojian’s features clouded. “So he gave her the book. I don’t know why. Guilt, probably, or something like that.”
“Did he know her well?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. In fact, he hardly knew her at all.”
“What did she do with it?”
“Took it home, I guess.”
“I don’t believe this. I hope she knows enough to take care of it.” Silas glared at Flojian. “At least, he should have given it to us. Did she know about it in advance?”
“No. In fact, she couldn’t have been more surprised.”
Silas wanted to flee the room, to begin tracking the book down before the poor woman used it to light her fire. But the story didn’t make sense. “Karik had a Mark Twain novel and he didn’t tell anybody? Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he expect that Chaka was just going to take it home and throw it into her hope chest?”
“He really didn’t tell me what he thought, Silas.”
Morinda lifted the amulet and examined it in the candlelight. Chaka watched the amethyst crescent glitter against its silver setting. It was exquisite. “Yes,” she said.
A bow was engraved on the reverse, Lyka’s device, the sign of the moon goddess. “It does look very nice on you,” said Chaka.
Morinda put the chain around her neck, and unclasped the top of her knit blouse so that the amulet hung between her breasts. “Thank you.” She shook her hair out and smiled alluringly. “Yes,” she said again.
Hoofbeats outside. “I’m glad you like it.”
They were in her workroom, in the rear of the villa. Morinda produced two gold pieces from a black purse. “My husband told me he saw you yesterday at Endine’s service.”
Chaka nodded. “It was a painful afternoon.”
“I’m not surprised. I intend no disrespect to the dead, but a man like that—” She shook her head.
“It was a long time ago.” Chaka closed the box that she had fashioned to house the amulet and handed it to Morinda. “There was no one you knew on that expedition, was there?”
“No,” Morinda said. “But that’s not the point, is it?”
Probably not.
Morinda smiled again, wished the silversmith a pleasant evening, and opened the door to reveal an older man just preparing to knock. “Good evening, ladies,” he said.
The man from the funeral service. “Silas Glote,” he said quickly.
Morinda took her farewell while Chaka gestured Silas into the shop. “I didn’t forget you. Master Glote,” she said. “How good to see you again.”
He smiled and gazed at the items on the display shelves.
There was an array of bracelets, rings, anklets, urns, goblets, and pins. He seemed particularly drawn to a set of silver clasps designed to secure a man’s shirt. “These are quite nice,” he observed.
She offered one for his inspection. “They’d look pretty good down at the Imperium,” she said.
He held it under a lamp. “Philosophically, we’re opposed to such baubles. We seek the inner realities.” He smiled. “The inner realities are more within the reach of my pocketbook.”
“For you,” she said, “I can offer a special price.” She named an amount which really was quite reasonable. The clasps would contrast very nicely with the dark vest he was wearing. “Done,” he said, and then laughed when he saw he’d surprised her. “One should not be a slave to any code.”
“A wise choice. Master Glote.”
He folded his arms and the smile faded. “Chaka, I wanted to talk with you.”
“Please,” she said. She offered him a chair and sat down beside him. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand you received a legacy from Karik Endine.”
“Yes,” she said. He was direct, this one. “I was surprised. I’d seen him only once to talk with, and that was years ago. It’s really very odd.”
“Is it true it’s a book?”
“I suspect you know very well what it is, Master Glote.”
“Please call me Silas. May I see it?”
She was annoyed at Flojian’s lack of discretion. Still, she wanted to show it to someone who would appreciate it. “Of course.” She locked the workshop and led the way through a connecting door into the house.
A fire burned low in the living room. She walked past a fabric sofa and a long table whose top was littered with pieces of jewelry. Twin cabinets framed a window that looked out onto a row of moonlit hills.
Silas’s gaze fell on the rifles that were mounted over the fireplace. “Family of hunters,” she said.
She took him to the left-hand cabinet and lit a taper. In the flickering light, Silas’s features seemed rigid. The cabinet was cunningly made, designed so that the top unfolded, revealing a series of narrow compartments and a drawer. She opened the drawer, and the light from the taper fell on the book.
Mark Twain. Silas’s breathing became audible. “May I?” he asked at last.
“Of course.”
He touched the cover cautiously, reverently. The title was written in gold script across soft leather. He pulled
