The Dark Lord

conservatively, pretending to be his wife or servant. Ignoring their bickering over money for a moment, she let her eyes drift over honey-combed racks—each square niche filled with a papyrus or parchment scroll. The shelves covered each wall from floor to ceiling and the table was piled high with more documents, unrolled for easy perusal, held down by a variety of statuettes. Quietly, she drifted away from the low argument between the two men, hands clasped inside her cloak.

Each scroll was labeled in Greek with a neat hand. Thyatis raised an eyebrow, seeing the vigorous slant of the letters and the careful precision of each parchment tag. She turned at the corner of the room, looking over the desk again. There were day-old, ring-shaped stains on the unfinished wood and a plate with moldy crumbs. A glossy surfaced cup sat beside the remains of breakfast, half filled with wine. Badly trimmed quills and goose feathers littered the floor. Nicholas had produced a paper while her back was turned, filled with a transcription of the glyphs and markings shown in the original depiction of Nemathapi's device. He and Hecataeus bent over the writing.

'...ah, only a fragment, I'm afraid. Still, I should be able to make some sense of this...' The poet's voice was very smug and Thyatis frowned. Something in the room was out of place—the dissonance bothered her, setting her teeth on edge. She continued her slow circuit, attention drawn again to the table. There were some fresh parchments laid out, the ink still newly dark. Hecataeus moved them aside as she watched, clearing a space to examine Nicholas' paper. Her nostrils flared a little, seeing the set of his hands, and ink smudged on his right index finger.

'Ah, now,' the poet said, settling into his chair. 'Some of these symbols are familiar to me...'

Thyatis stepped out of the room. The hallway was high-ceilinged and dark, spaced with unadorned pillars. Scroll racks filled every possible space, rising two and three times the height of a man. More small offices opened out between each pair of columns, though most of the doorways were crowded with hemp baskets filled with tightly rolled scrolls. An inordinate number of cats lazed about, sleeping on the papers or cleaning themselves on the windowsills. Humming tunelessly, Thyatis began to poke through the books, finding some of the papers so old they were glued together by the humidity. She rattled a basket experimentally, then extracted one particularly decrepit looking manuscript. Dust scattered, making Thyatis sneeze.

'What are you doing? Put that down!' A small hand seized Thyatis' wrist and the Roman woman looked down with interest at a tiny, dark-skinned woman hanging on her arm. 'Guests are not allowed to touch the books!'

'I think,' Thyatis said, lifting the little woman from the ground with one hand, feeling a flush of satisfaction at the smooth, powerful movement of her muscles, 'this particular book is long gone. My name is Diana. What is yours?'

The little brown woman kicked Thyatis in the thigh with a sandaled foot. More dust puffed from her shoe. The Roman woman suppressed a smile. 'Here,' Thyatis said in a placating tone. 'I've put the book back. And I'll set you down. Now, tell me your name.'

Scowling furiously, the woman bounced back, then darted in to check the placement of the manuscript. Satisfied the document was back in its proper place, she squinted up at Thyatis, her hair a tangle of russet curls around a sharp, triangular face. 'I am Sheshet, a curator of the Museum! Who let you in? What are you doing here?'

'Let me see your fingers,' Thyatis said in reply, catching the woman's left hand with a quick movement. Sheshet yelped in surprise, but the Roman woman released her hand as quickly as it had been seized. 'You labeled the scrolls in Master Hecataeus' office?'

'Yes...' The quick anger in the little woman's expression faded, replaced by a penetrating, considering stare. 'You've come to see the Cypriot, then? An ode for your lover, I suppose.' Sheshet sniffed insultingly. 'He can be amusing, sometimes.'

'No,' Thyatis said, listening with half an ear to the poet droning on about high kingdom bas- reliefs. 'My friend has a document he wants translated. A very old document, from Pharaoh Nemathapi's time...' Sheshet's expression froze and Thyatis caught a flicker of calculation in the woman's eyes. Well, well, she thought, they are surely a close family, here, all loving and trusting. 'Ah, you've heard the name before.'

'I have.' Sheshet pursed her lips, drawing out the words. 'Maybe.' She rubbed two fingers together. Thyatis considered the woman's sandals—worn, patched—and her garments, no more than a threadbare tunic and stola with a frayed belt. Her only jewelry was a tarnished silver ring showing a star cradled in the arms of a crescent moon, her nails chipped and dark with ink stains.

'Let's talk quietly,' Thyatis said, lifting Sheshet up and striding away down the passage. They passed more openings into crowded rooms, then at the end of the hall she found a quiet corridor leading off to the right. Miraculously, the passage was not completely filled with baskets and boxes, so she set the little woman down on a crate, where they could see eye to eye.

'You are very strong,' Sheshet said, straightening her tunic. For the first time, the Egyptian woman seemed to see Thyatis and the Roman felt a chill under the penetrating gaze. 'You're a soldier.' She reached out and turned Thyatis' right wrist over. Her cracked fingernails slid over glassy scars. 'Are you an archer?'

'Sometimes, when need drives,' Thyatis said, evading the question. 'Your dear Hecataeus knew Nemathapi's name already—you've heard it too—has someone else been to see him, asking about a device?'

The curator's eyes glinted in amusement. 'How much will you pay?'

'Tell me,' Thyatis replied, 'and you'll have enough for more than parchment, papyrus, ink, quills...'

The little woman laughed softly, looking down at her grubby clothing. 'You mean, buy fewer books? Spend something on myself?' Sheshet shook her head. 'There's not enough money for such luxuries, not in this world.'

'Gold, then,' Thyatis said, producing a double-weight aureus from her belt. 'Who came to see Hecataeus about the old pharaoh?'

Ink-stained fingers snatched the coin from Thyatis' hand and the Egyptian woman weighed the gold in her hand. 'Unclipped. Very thoughtful of you. A Western coin.' Sheshet flipped it over, running a thumb across the stamped image. 'A commemorative of Emperor Galen's triumph over Persia—very fresh, unworn.' The woman licked her lips, thinking. 'You've come recently from Rome then, drawn pay from the Imperial Treasury. You are official, aren't you?'

'Yes,' Thyatis said, leaning close. Sheshet did not flinch away, meeting her eyes with an amused expression. 'Who came to see Hecataeus?'

'Persians,' Sheshet said carelessly, pocketing the coin. 'Two of them—a big man, bigger than you, with a horseman's waist and dangerous eyes. The other, though, he's been in the city so long he speaks like a Rhakotis native... they had a rubbing; charcoal on thin parchment. They were looking for a tomb.' The curator paused, wiggling her fingers.

'How many books do you want to buy?' Thyatis said, both eyebrows raised in amusement. She produced another gold coin.

'How many books are in the world?' Sheshet laughed quietly. 'The poet said he needed to consult a geographica, but they wouldn't leave. So he came into my office and asked me to find some references while they waited.'

Thyatis nodded, remembering the stains on the old table. 'They had wine, from unfired cups.'

Sheshet nodded, shrugging her shoulders. 'Hecataeus is cheap, he won't buy good cups for his guests.'

'What did the rubbing show? Was there a picture, wheels set within wheels?'

'No.' Sheshet's interested perked. 'Just some old graffiti. Scratchings from a wall—the stones were large and well cut—you could see the pattern of the chisel strokes reflected in the rubbing.' The woman brushed curls out of her eyes, squinting into an unseen, internal distance. 'A bronze chisel... even in the course of one block, you could see the strokes shallowing as the blade dulled... Nemathapi lived long ago, when iron was scarce. His tomb perhaps, or a funerary temple.' She paused. 'But there were no chips of paint shown in the rubbing—I doubt some Persians would clean the surface first. A tomb entry chamber then, unpainted.'