That suggested someone wanted to preserve the magic but didn’t want anyone using it. Given how old the two known stones were, that was an impressive feat and might indicate Oriceran involvement.
From what Shay had seen, magic was a lot like most technologies. No one wanted to give up the power to manipulate reality once they’d achieved it, even if it caused a lot of problems.
Shay moved through the stacks toward a small section on Hittite history. The ancient Anatolian people might not have anything to do with the creation of the artifact, but it was a good place to start.
The tomb raider let out a sigh. It was a narrow slice of books in the huge personal library, but that section happened to be at the top of one of her wall shelves.
A quick trip across the room netted her one of her rolling ladders. Once she’d reached the top, she realized she’d miscalculated on the position of the book she wanted. Instead of climbing back down, she swung across the bolted shelf, snagged the book, and returned to the ladder.
“There we go.”
Shay smiled and headed toward a small cozy nook she’d set up in a side room. With its comfortable lounge chair and soft lighting it was a relaxing place to review a tome or two, just not the place for stacks of books and pages of furious note-scribbling.
Shay settled into the soft leather chair. Tomb raiding was about money, first and foremost, but it was also about her love of history, and it was nights like this she could appreciate that.
She planned to leave for Turkey bright and early the next morning, but a few hours of reading would not only be useful, it’d also relax her.
Let’s see what I can dig up.
The tomb raider stifled a yawn. She was on her third book in as many hours. Surveying the ancient Anatolian culture of the Hittites was interesting, but it had yet to give her any insights that might help on the job. She’d vowed to check out one last work, a translated copy of a 1945 German book, The Secret Occult History of the Bronze Age.
Shay was ready to head home when a footnote caught her eye.
Wolf agrees with Klein that the proper translation of the text of the temple inscription mentioned in Klein’s survey would be more properly rendered as “denying death” rather than “extending life.” (Wolf 24)
The rest of the chapter mainly discussed issues with the translation of ancient languages and didn’t mention anything else that could be construed as having anything to do with the stone.
Even if the tidbit had anything to do with the stone she was looking for, it didn’t matter. Shay wasn’t planning on collecting the nine stones and achieving immortality, either by “denying death” or “extending life,” whatever the difference was.
Shay stretched and yawned. “Time to grab me an artifact.”
Men choked the streets, all streaming toward colorful banners in the distance. Many walked without shirts, their toned muscles on display under the morning sun. They chatted jovially in Turkish. She doubted anything they were saying was important enough she should use machine translation. Few paid her much attention.
She smirked to herself. The universe had a sense of humor after all. She’d hit the city during its famed annual oil-wrestling tournament. If she hadn’t been there on a job, she might have taken in a few rounds of greased-up men rolling around with each other. The simple pleasures made life bearable.
An image of a shirtless and oiled Brownstone popped into her head. Even if he didn’t notice her, it didn’t change the fact he was the Grand Master of Six Packs. She had most definitely noticed that.
Shay shook her head. Respect for Brownstone was flowing together with admiration of some of his other traits more often than not lately.
The tomb raider pushed out the thought of oiled bounty hunters and moved up the street, her gaze sweeping the area. She was careful not to make eye contact with any of the men. She didn’t want or need to draw any attention to herself.
Her current outfit, a robe and a head scarf, was opposite on the modesty scale from the shirtless men. She’d chosen it to keep a lower profile and hide her identity, but she was impressed by how many weapons she could hide under the robe. She could have probably hidden the Masamune tachi under it. Shay snickered at the thought.
The street was almost as thick with tourists who’d shown up to take in the festival celebrating all things oily and virile. More people to give her cover—which was good.
Her mirth vanished as she turned a corner. Four minarets rose in the distance, surrounding the massive dome and three balconies of the Selimiye Mosque.
Okay, nothing like a building older than your country to give you some perspective.
She wasn’t there to sightsee. Not entirely, anyway. Getting a firsthand look at the street layout might help her later if she needed to beat a hasty retreat.
A few more minutes of sightseeing and escape planning brought her to a small café. She pushed inside and winced as a powerful smell ambushed her and brought bile to her throat.
People who didn’t travel much took for granted sensory familiarity and how challenges to that could push a person off-balance, especially smell—one of the more evocative of the senses. Shay sucked in a breath and focused.
The scent was hard to identify at first. It reminded her of a combination of rust and blood, but her review of local culture on the plane en route helped her figure out the source sitting on several plates—cigercisi, or fried calf’s liver.
Shay
