"The World in Play: Chapter 3" by Lynn K Hollander

Chapter 3

            Martin looked around.  "Nice place.  Where are we?"

            "This is the Inn at San Francisco,"  Ann said.  

            "Rather like pictures from the Gilded Age."

            They were in a hotel lobby and Martin's comment was appropriate.  Curving marble staircases with bull-nosed treads and cast bronze balusters in the shape of stylized Eschscholzia californica(1); Corinthian columns with deep fluting and gilded capitals; multi-tiered crystal chandeliers; frescos so deeply allegorical as to leave the vampire uncertain of the subject - the large two story lobby lacked no ornate or opulent cliché.  

            "Inns are flexible and both reflect and are independent of their environment to some degree.  It depends.  The Inn at Shasta has always been a lodge, even before Americans began skiing.  The one at Piraeus is still a dockside tavern.  
            "San Francisco is a complex town even for humans,"  Ann continued.  "It's always had a formal society as well as one or more counter-cultures, whatever the names are this year.  We're in the quiet, formal, part of the Inn.  The St. Francis, or the Ritz-Carlton part, you could say."

            She fit in well with her current surroundings:  Her dress was silk crêpe, white for the full length skirt, with a violet sash that flowed up over her shoulders, twisted around her torso to form the bodice, then tied in front and fell nearly to the hem line.  He couldn't find any hint of a zipper.  He had been trying to follow the flow of the material with his eyes, but he couldn't determine if the sash was one long strip of material or if it had been cut and sewn.  The topology was interesting and reminded him of something.   "Like a Möbius strip,"  he realized.  

            "Yes,"  Ann said, smiling.

            "Vionnet,"  he added, dredging the name out of his past.

            "Yes.  How did you know?"

            "My aunt."

            "The shrink?  She had good taste."

            "Actually, she wouldn't let my kid cousin wear one, not one like this, tighter, with less top."

            "How old was your cousin?"

            "Sixteen."

            Ann nodded.  "Some of Madeline's dresses are not suitable for young girls."

            He looked at her again, thinking the dress she was wearing was another. The dress veiled her body from shoulders to toes and by doing so, made it impossible to ignore.  "Very elegant."

            "Our restaurant is this way."

            "This is part of a chain?" Martin asked, wondering about the Inn at Shasta and the Inn at Piraeus.

            "It's a franchise, more or less,"  Ann said.  "Do you want a drink first?"

            "Of course."

            "The Pacific Room, I think,"  Ann said.  "The last time I was here, it was over this way."

            The bar was quiet.  Martin was impressed.  The noise from the White Elephant started loud, grew gradually throughout the evening to a painful level, then stopped abruptly at 2:00 AM; while the noise from the No Mirrors Bar peaked erratically several times a night as the demon-vampire or the vampire-vampire or the demon-demon interaction grew heated.  The No Mirrors Lounge had its own schedule of noise.

            Martin held Ann's chair, then sat himself.  The chair was comfortable and the table was marble.   Keeping marble unchipped, unstained and nicely polished was not easy.  He ordered scotch.  Sipping it, he was startled.  If this was the bar scotch, what else did this place stock?  He debated asking for a Villeneuve's Hat, which was the most obscure mixed drink he knew, at least in the States, just to see what the bartender could do, then Ann said something, and he lost interest in business.

            "The chain specializes in sheltering non-humans?"  Martin asked, watching a trio of diminutive male taldis demons exit the bar ahead of them.

            "Immortals and visitors, usually,"  Ann said.  

            "How about unpleasant types, female taldis demons, traditional vampires and active werewolves?"

            "Them, too.  There's always a truce here.  Rather like the one you and Edward maintain in the No Mirrors neighborhood."

            "There are some rough types around."

            "Here too.  There are spells that enforce good behavior, on pain of stoning."

            "That's a little barbaric."  

            Ann laughed.  "Not lapidation, petrifaction."  A group of young blond men at the bar glanced up at her.  She appeared to pay no attention.  

            Martin was watching her laugh, and didn't glance at the man alone at a table across the room, who looked at her and turned his face away.  "What you did to Logan?"  Martin asked.

            "That was a simple immobilization.  You can't move, you can't talk if I include your larynx, but you can think, see and hear."

            "What Dmitri Romanov did to Jan?"

            "That was a stasis spell.  Ofon'ka has been practicing."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Stasis spells are tricky for some people to master, but slavers like them."  

            "Dmitri's a slaver?"  Martin asked.

            "What did you think he was doing with Jan?"

            "Oh.  Of course,"  Martin said.

            "Sometimes Ofonasii Liubinovich needs watching,"  Ann said.   

            "How many names do you people usually have?"

            "Compared with whom?"  Ann asked, amused.  "Normal vampires?  Immortals, of whatever origin, tend to acquire use names.  They're usually not completely our own doing, mostly they attach to us the way you became first Molchan Grigor and then Malcolm Gregory.
            "Anyway, the advantage to stasis spells is that the object retains many of  its original aspects.  Color and visual textures are life-like, so the merchandise can be seen as it is, but I think the principal reason slavers like them - beyond that their merchandise doesn't age or need to be fed - is the same reason lawyers hate them:  The object, if alive to begin with, has a memory gap."

            "You can't testify to what you didn't experience?"

            "Yes."

            "So what's petrifaction?"

            "That involves a hiatus, too.  You're a statue; you're stone. You stay that way until you are released.  You can get chipped or even eroded if you're left out in acid rain.   Here at the Inn it's usually just till they can throw you out, but once out, you stay barred for a century or a millennium.  It depends on the Innkeeper's mood."

            "It sounds like a useful talent.  Can anyone learn it?"

            "Not easily."

            "Which may be just as well,"  Martin said.

ooo

            Well, Chasen thought, watching Andrée Chantal and an unknown vampire exit the Pacific Room. She was taller than he was this time.   That didn't stop him from recognizing her.  The changes in his appearance - he now had dark curly hair, brown eyes, sallow skin and a solid muscular build - wouldn't have stopped her from recognizing him, if she had noticed him.  Had she noticed him?  Did her presence mean trouble?  Possibly not.  Everybody comes to the Inn, after all, and she hadn't even glanced at him or at the objects of his attention.  Apparently, she was interested only in the vampire.  Lucky bastard.

            He returned to his surveillance of the blonds.  They were easily the dullest subjects he'd watched in recent memory.  Still, his instructions were clear:  The geek component would lead him to the man with the object.  So far, though, none of the geeks had shown any intention of leaving the Inn.   There was no way he was going to attempt any violence in the Inn, no matter how urgently Mekonnen demanded action.

ooo

            "Anna, good evening."  A man in a very nice evening suit halted a seemingly casual amble and smiled at Ann.   He was shorter than Ann, his shaven head about level with her chin.  He had black skin, a narrow nose and a pattern of raised scars on both cheeks:  two mirror-imaged double spirals, like a capital S facing a backward one while lying on their long sides.

            "Good evening, Innkeeper.  This is a friend of mine, Martin Stevenson."

            "How do you do,"  the Innkeeper said as they shook hands.  The Innkeeper's hands were large for his height, and quite strong.  His gaze sharpened at something behind Martin, and he said:  "Excuse me."  He nodded to Ann and hurried off.

            "Brusque,"  Martin said.

            "That was cordial,"  Ann smiled.  "Innkeeper can be a hectic job, especially in a place like San Francisco today."

            Something in her comments made Martin look at her.  "Do you keep an Inn?"

            "I did, a long time ago, when my foster son was young,"  Ann said.   "It was much smaller and less frequented than this one, but some of the problems are the same, then as now."

            "How long ago?"

            "Oh, before you were born,"  Ann said.  "Keeping an Inn does give a certain structure to one's daily routine, which I found helpful when raising an infant; and of course, the guests can be an education in themselves."

            "Is your son still at home with you?"

            "He's away at school,"  Ann said.

            "A small institution in the north-east?"

            "Taz is going to be a junior at Stanford,"  Ann laughed.   

            "Taz?"

            "His friends there have started calling him Taz, I don't know why."

            "How old is he?"

            "Older than you are, younger than I am,"  Ann smiled.

            Martin smiled back in defeat and returned to the subject of the Inn.  "You may find this a silly question, but does this place have a street address?"

            "It's not silly, and the answer is yes and no.  It has a street address, usually with underground parking and a pedestrian entrance or entrances, but its address and appearance change day to day."

            "Rather like The Brothel on 22^nd Street?"  Martin asked.  "Do you know about that?"

            "It moves, but it's always on some part of 22^nd Street."

            "Right."

            "Very similar, yes.  The Inn moves around a lot more, but the principle is the same.  It's always somewhere in San Francisco."

            "This is quiet, too,"  Martin said, pleasantly surprised by the restaurant.  

            "I like quiet.  If it were rated, this restaurant would get one bell.  There are other restaurants-"

            "Each with a different ambiance?"

            "Yes.  Here they have an excellent selection of appetizers.  Ah, stuffed chanterelles.  Do you like oysters?"

            "One or two."

            "We can order several small plates, so you can have a variety of tastes.  And I'm told they have a fine blood list, if you want something substantial."

            "How do you know so much about us?"  Martin asked.  "Most humans think we sleep in coffins and eat only blood."

            "Some of my friends are vampires,"  Ann said.  "And some are professional vampire hunters."   

            Martin heard footsteps halt behind him and turned.  Across the table, Ann glanced up and beyond him.  She stared for a moment, appearing startled.

            "Etana?"  Ann asked.  "I'd heard you left, but I didn't know you returned."

            "Hey, you were always sharp.  I didn't think you'd recognize me, what with the new body and everything."

            "It's quite a change, but you're still you."

            Martin rose to his feet and turned to face the man who had approached them.

            "New name, though: Ethan.   I'm going by Ethan now."

            "Nice name.  I'm using Ann Grove at the moment, and this is Molchan Grigor.  Grigor, Ethan.  Any last name, or are you just Ethan?"

            "Singleton, I decided on Singleton, since I'm the only Ethan that matters.  You a  mortal, Grigor?"

            "Not exactly."  Martin was ready to shake hands, but Ethan turned back to Ann:

            "You always had a thing for mortals, didn't you?"

            "I like many of them, certainly."

            "She's always been a little pamiscuous,"  Ethan told Martin.  "She usually has four or five of them around."  

            Oh, Martin thought.  'Promiscuous'.  And it sounds as if those grapes are sour.

            "I prefer 'eclectic',"  Ann said, calmly.   "After all, I usually have only four or five of them around."

            "Eclectic is good,"  Martin said, watching Ethan frown.

            "Are you with someone, Ethan?  A young man is attempting to gain your attention."

            "What?"

            "Behind you,"  Ann said.

            Ethan spun around.  

            Martin decided if he ever had to fight him he'd cheat.  Not only was Ethan young - about twenty-two at most - tall - about 6'6" - and well muscled - he could have been the 'after' example in an ad for an exercise video - he was fast and agile.  He was wearing only a sheer linen kilt, sandals and a lot of massive gold jewelry:  armlets, bracelets, a necklace and a wide belt of flat links, all with hunting scenes - men in kilts like Ethan's, armed with spears, facing huge lions and strange winged beings - in high relief.  In addition to having long honey-colored hair and dark blue, long lashed eyes, he had a golden all over tan, totally lacked body hair and was uncircumcised.

            "Ah, he's just one of the clan."

            "You're gathering the clan again?  Have you brought all your family?"

            "Just the boys, you know, my brothers and cousins and uncles."

            "You're fortunate to have so many good looking relatives,"  Martin said, as the young man signaling to Ethan was joined by a crowd of tall blond men.  None of them, the vampire noticed, were quite as tall as Ethan or wore as much jewelry.  Most of them were dressed in kilts, but some of them, seemingly older than the average although that might have been because they had shaved heads, wore toga-like garments in stripes of red and green, while others wore tight white pants under strangely cut caftans.

            "Yeah, they all look a lot like me,"  Ethan said, smiling at Martin.  "We planned it that way."

            "All thirty-six of them,"  Ann said mildly.

            "No, there's more of us.  There's got to be more of us around here somewhere."

            "Ah, those four beautiful blond boys in the quiet bar?"  Ann asked.  "I didn't realize they were with you.  I don't think I've met them before."

            "Most of them are new, so are some of the others, but hey, we're all kin."

            "What are the forty-one of you going to do to pass the time?  Your old occupation is mostly non-existent in this century, except on some of the cable channels."

            "Oh, you know, this and that.  Gotta go.  Drop around sometime, Grigor, we'll have a beer."

            "Thank you,"  Martin said.

            Ann watched Ethan.  Martin also watched the hulking blond gather up his relatives and lead them across the restaurant to a set of double doors, where a tall man carrying a slender staff, and with his hair and beard in long black ringlets, waited.  Martin somehow recognized the Innkeeper, even wearing long robes with colorful spot patterns and deep fringes.  He guessed costume changes, including body shifts, were part of the job.

            Martin sat again.  He knew there was no point in asking Ann how long ago she'd known Ethan.  He'd just get another answer like oh, before you were born.  He concentrated on what might be important now:  "Is he one of the rough types you were talking about?"

            Ann turned to him.  "He's more juvenile and uncouth.  Are you immune to him?  He was trying with you, there at the end, but you seemed unimpressed by him."

            "Trying what?"

            Ann smiled.  "To enlist you.  He likes followers.  He can be very charismatic; although apparently not to vampires."

            "Or to you?"

            "No, and he knows I'm immune, he doesn't bother trying with me.  I don't think he's a problem; certainly not tonight.  Are you going to eat that last mushroom?"

            "No,"  he said, passing her the remaining stuffed chanterelle.  "What was his old occupation?"

            "Looking good at state orgies,"  Ann said,  "and other ceremonial events.  He might actually be much happier this time around - we have very good mirrors now."

            "Speak for yourself."

            Ann chuckled.   She seemed more amused than his somewhat feeble sally deserved.  

            "Is he right about you and mortals?"  Martin asked.  "Or were you just confusing him with words?"

            "That's usually unavoidable.  He's approximately correct, at least about the numbers.  I often have more than one lover at a time.  However, he's wrong when he implies that my lovers are chosen only from among mortals and he totally ignores that I select them carefully, whether they're mortal or immortal."

            Well, hell, Martin thought.  She ignored most of his questions, but she would freely deliver some very interesting facts, if he were willing to wait patiently.   "Ah.  I see.  Does the selection process involve essay questions?"  

            "A series of vivas,"  she said, her mouth slowly curving into a smile.

            "I always do well on orals,"  he said, leaning forward across the table.

            "Really?"  she said, moving to meet him.

            Before Martin could reply, Ethan stuck his head around the door and bellowed. Martin winced and looked around.  The Innkeeper, walking out the main entrance, frowned, and recrossed the room.  Ethan pulled his head back.  Good for the Innkeeper, Martin thought.

            Straightening, Ann watched as the four clansmen from the bar came hurrying across the room.  "Now that's interesting."

            "What?"

            "They all have laptops."

            "So?"

            "That's as unusual as a vampire with a suntan,"  Ann said.

ooo

            "The outer area is for pleasant conversation and quiet dining,"  the Innkeeper told Ethan.  "With the door shut, this room's soundproofing insures that any behavior, even the most robust, can be kept private.  We will arrange immediately for a separate exit and an elevator directly up to your quarters."

            "Hey, nobody got hurt.  Scaring those guys is harder than you think,"  Ethan said.  He smiled winningly at the Innkeeper.

            The Innkeeper rapped his staff on the floor.  Ethan stopped smiling.  

            "I like my quiet dining room quiet."

            "Yessir."

            "Enjoy your meal,"  the Innkeeper said, and left.

            "And even if I did scare them, it wouldn't do them any harm at all,"  Ethan  muttered.

ooo

            Chasen, loitering casually near the door to the private dining room, walked off as the Innkeeper came out.  Glancing back, Chasen saw him close the door and erase it with a smooth gesture of one hand.   Well, he thought, it was possible that Ethan was sealed in permanently, but it was much more likely that he and his relatives were just shunted out of the more civilized areas.  Chasen sighed.  Over the years, he had come to appreciate civilization; not that simplicity didn't have its virtues, too.  On the other hand, here at the Inn, even if he wore armor and carried a shield, he could still get a vodka martini.  Chasen used the restaurant's back exit and walked around the perimeter of the private dining room, looking for changes, especially a new door.

ooo

            "Speech!"  

            "Yeah!"

            "All right!"  Ethan said, looking at the TelePrompTer.  The cuneiform symbols started to flow slowly up the screen.  "The time is ours!  It is time for us to accompish our fated hero task.  Slow this thing down, can you?  We are all returned to our home to retake our rightful place in the world.  To this end...what?  So we can do this,"  Ethan ad-libbed,  "we've made some changes-some of us are scribes and some of us are priests.   Usually we're all heroes and hunters, but we've gotten started a little late and we have to catch up...uh...we need a variety of talents.  The scribes, the priests and the hunters will locate and acqu...the scribes and the priests will find out what we need and the hunters will go get it. Once we have what we need, we'll change the world back the way it was, we'll be a new broom...what?  We don't sweep - that's for slaves and women."  

            Produs Singleton whispered to Ranon Singleton:  "I thought you were going to rehearse him?"

            "We did."  

            Stap Singleton whispered to Ethan:  "We will redirect the world into the proper and traditional worship..."

            "Oh.  Uh, we'll redirect the world to the proper...Oh, you know what I mean - we'll bless the fields, drink the beer and hunt, just like we used to!"

            "Do you think we should remind him how different the world will be when we succeed?" Ranon asked while the rest of the clan cheered.

            "He'll just forget again.  He's quite the optimist,"  Produs replied.

ooo

            "Did I mention I have a 3:00 patrol?"  Martin asked.  "I should be back at the Lounge by 2:30."

            Ann nodded. "If you want to walk, we should leave now; or we could have coffee on  the roof and after that, I'll move us to the Lounge."

            "That sounds good."

            "There's an elevator over this way.  Usually,"  she added looking around.  "Ah, there it is."

            The doors opened, they entered, the doors closed.  Martin looked for a control panel but did see one.  

            "The roof,"  Ann said.

            The car remained still.  

            After a moment, Ann said,  "Martin?  Have you changed your mind about coffee?"

            "No.  Why?"

            "The elevators here are attuned to the passengers,"  Ann said.   "I asked for the roof.  Apparently you want to go somewhere else?"

            "Oh,"  Martin said.  "Not exactly.  I was just thinking that this is the first time this evening we've been private."  

            "Think about coffee,"  Ann said.

            "I'd rather think about kissing you."

            "I can't apport us out of here,"  Ann said.  

            "You could kiss me, and then I might feel more like coffee."

            "I'll kiss you when this elevator arrives on the roof."

            Whoosh.

            "OK,"  Martin said.  "Now, I didn't do that."

            Ann laughed.  She stepped out of the elevator before she turned to him.

            "You don't trust the elevator?"

            "No,"  Ann said.  "It seems a little too anxious to please.  We might find ourselves elsewhere."  

            "That's not a totally unacceptable idea,"  Martin said.

            Ann smiled, but said,  "Returning might be a problem."

ooo

            Ann shifted her dress to jeans and sweater and her evening sandals to sturdy walking shoes as she descended the outside stairs of the No Mirrors Lounge.  She set off north, heading for Russian Hill.  Some disturbing thoughts had occurred to her during dinner, but she had put them aside for the moment.  She could now consider them.  She didn't like her conclusions.  
            In a small private universe - what might be called an isolated spatio-temporal pocket -  Ann kept one of the forty-one pieces of the Cosmic Egg.  How she got the piece - a nearly square table-cut pigeon-blood ruby approximately 2 by 2 inches - was irrelevant(It had been exciting, though, involving some of Ann's professional vampire hunting friends; a tall handsome vampire villian named Adan; an even handsomer flawed hero who had decided to call himself Konrad; and an armed robbery in force of the Getty Center during an expensive and glittering charity evening. But that was in the past.).  What mattered at the moment was the number forty-one.  Forty-one pieces of the Egg, forty-one Singletons, who intended to do 'this and that'.  'This and that' could conceivably be the Quest of the Egg.  If one was successful in the Quest, one - and one's forty closest friends - could remake the Universe.
            If the Quest of the Egg had begun, it was not overly alarmist to assume someone, at some point in the foreseeable future, possibly even what a human would call soon, would want the ruby.  Ann did not enjoy being taken by surprise.  Fortunately, the Quest of the Egg was not really something that could be kept hidden.   Someone would know, if not everything, at least more than she did.  Who though?  Ask the wrong person, and everyone else could know your business.  She needed someone discreet, someone knowledgeable, someone who was accustomed to answering questions.
            She needed a librarian.

Meredith Jerome
or
Ann At The Library

            Dr. Meredith Jerome was the Chief Librarian of a small private college east of Moraga.    She lived on the north side of campus, within easy walking distance of the main library.  It was a pleasant walk, and she always enjoyed it.

           The campus had lots of the traditional greenswards.  It had been laid out when both water and land were easier to obtain and no one had worried about the impracticality of using grass as a ground cover in a Mediterranean climate.  In recent years, the lawns were smaller, mostly on the north and east sides of hills and buildings, and laid out over porous drip tubes and subterranean cisterns that took advantage of the rainy season.   

           On the whole, she thought, this had been a good life.  She now appeared to be in her early sixties, and soon, as immortals measure time, she would be changing her life and probably her career.  Librarian had been interesting, but it might be time for a change.  Perhaps she would be an historian next, perhaps something else; on the other hand, there were new developments in data management not yet complete...

            The college library dated from the previous century, with floating stainless steel staircases and stabilized cork floors.  Meredith passed through the lobby and the main reading room, entering an unlabeled door in the stacks and climbed the stairs to the third floor.  She entered her office through the Chief Librarian's private door.

            "Good morning,"  she said to the woman behind the desk.

            "Hi,"  Ann Grove said.  "I brought baklava."  She indicated a large pink bakery box on the table by the windows.  Beside the box was a Wedgwood Gold Florentine coffee set, complete with small dessert plates, and several linen napkins.

            "I assume I am to be bribed?"

            "You like baklava,"  Ann said.  "You've liked baklava since it was invented."

            "That's very true."  

           "And this place does it really well."

            Meredith looked at Ann:  This visit, she appeared to be somewhere between twenty-three and thirty, around six feet tall, and had black hair and green eyes.  The last time Meri had seen her, in 1887, Ann had also had black hair, but with brown eyes, brown skin and had been about 5'4".   "Well,"  Meredith said, sitting in one of the chairs by the table,  "what do you want to know?"

            "Where do I find facts about the pieces of  Egg?"  Ann asked, pouring coffee.

            "Ask your ward."

            "He knows what I know:  In the Rite of the Beginning forty-one sapient beings tore the Cosmic Egg into forty-one pieces.  Some of the tianyuan(2) are here on Earth."  

           "Probably most of them, by now."   Meredith sipped her coffee, put down her cup and eyed the baklava.

           "'By now?'"  Ann repeated, making it a question.

            "According to History of the Matrix of Earth,"  Meri said, "the pieces of the Egg tend to cluster, under the right circumstances."
br           "What are the right circumstances?"  

           "In this case, intention matters.  The eschatological literature sometimes describes the process as one of unconscious consensus."

           Ann took a sip of coffee.  "I don't know if that's a new name for a self-fulfilling prophecy or an excellent analysis of how fads work.  The last would explain why some fashion designers do what they do."    

           "Either simile seems apt,"  Meri said.  "The pieces of the Egg are clustering on Earth because more people now on Earth have the intention of enacting the Rite of the Beginning than on any other world.  And, of course, people from other worlds with the same intention are coming here because pieces of the Egg are here."

            "Oh,"  Ann said, very mildly.  "Really?"

            Clearly, Meri thought, Ann was surprised.

            "Is that in History of the Matrix of Earth, too?"  Ann asked.

            "No, that's in The Story of the Cackler.

            "Where can I find a copy?"

            "You can find a précis in almost any good encyclopedia of world myth."

           "Let's assume I'm starting from zero.  What should I read first?"

            "Let me think."  Meri took two bites of baklava, then:  "What languages do you read?"

            "I am reasonably literate,"  Ann said.

           "Good, that makes things easier."  Meredith wiped her hands and went to her computer.  "Let me see.  I think there is a copy of History of the Matrix of Earth, in Old Mongolian, at the Asian Art Museum, across the Bay.  You may have some trouble accessing it, since the Museum is in flux.  They're changing buildings, and this year, most items are in storage.  Oh, never mind, the book seems to have moved already."

            "I beg your pardon?  The books are openly autonomous?"

            "Not the way you may mean,"  Meredith chuckled.  It wasn't often she could startle Ann and she'd managed to do it twice this morning.  "According to this footnote to the catalogue, there was a sale, and the copy of History of the Matrix of Earth was de-acquired, to use a current neologism.   Let me find the current edition of Buy and Brag."

           "What's that?"

            "It's actually called Acquisitions and it's published by a consortium of museums and libraries, here and abroad.  It's a combination boast -- see what I have and you don't -- want list and a sort of Antiques Roadshow style identification column.  You can sort according to a variety of data-date written, date sold or traded, language, variant texts, price, subject, who sold, who bought.  There are separate lists of what's for sale and what's wanted."  Meri frowned at the screen for a moment, then turned to Ann:  "You don't really need the actual item, do you?  You just want the data."

           "Yes."

            "Facsimiles will do then, or transliterations.  What name are you using?  Have you a credit card number?  Mailing address?  Web address?  Fine.  Then let me see what's on offer. I'll check the Ancient Text Society web site, the Huntington Library, the British Library, the Smithsonian Library, University of the Andes, the British Museum, the Louvre, Mexico City, Cairo, Beijing, Taipei..."  Happily, Meredith clicked away at her keyboard.  

           Ann Grove smiled at the librarian and sipped her coffee.

           Meri printed out a list and handed it to Ann:  "Ah, that was fun.  Now, I'm not sure what the fact to page ratio is, but these will get you started."

            Ann eyed the four single spaced pages.  "It seems so,"  she agreed.  

           "Some of these are coming express, others will trickle in.  There were more books than I thought there would be.  I would say it's not just the pieces of the Egg and the aspiring actors that tend to cluster."

            "Oh?"  Ann asked, a trifle blankly, as if she were beyond surprise.  

           "Some of these are new, newly discovered, I mean.  Interesting."

            "Spontaneous generation in the depths of the stacks,"  Ann murmured.

            "Very possibly,"  Meri agreed.  "I also bought some forthcoming publications, to be delivered later."  She returned to the baklava and coffee.  After a quick restorative nibble, she said,  "I wouldn't suggest this to a human, but the ones on that last page, those you'll have to steal.  The organizations that hold the originals won't hear of copying them.  It's out of scheduled order or some other, even less rational, reason."

            "Fine,"  Ann said.  "I'll put back anything I take."

            "And if you call these people, they are skilled at making copies; everything from non-intrusive photocopies to stacks of disks to single hard copy printouts."  She handed Ann a business card.

           "Gorilla Data?"  Ann read.  

           "They say they were inspired by the Huntington Library's publication of the Dead Sea Scrolls."

            "Cupertino.  Are they humans?"

            "I don't know, I've only e-mailed them,"  Meri said.   "You're right, this is very good baklava."

The Innkeeper

            In his office, the Innkeeper and four of his managers were handling routine administration details:  Security, supplies, repairs, and reservations.  

           Zuri, security, in a very few well chosen words, reported on a brawl in the lower tavern and other matters.  Chaldun, repairs and maintenance, commented on the breakage.  Egil, the restaurant and bar manager, reported on the state of the pantry.  Yerodin, the reservations manager, wanted some clarification on the clansmen.  

           "A meeting room?"  the Innkeeper asked.

            "And a computer center and a library,"  Yerodin said.  

           "What are they up to?"  Egil wondered.

            "All their activities so far have been permitted,"  the Innkeeper said.  

           "Chasen,"  Zuri said, meaning that Chasen was still watching the clansmen with computers.

            The Innkeeper nodded.

            "They want buffet service,"  Egil said.  "Coffee, small foods and a full bar."

           Zuri asked:  "Where?"

            "That's the problem,"  Yerodin said.  "The most convenient rooms are reserved next week.  A coven."

            "Private floor?"  Zuri asked.

            "That would keep Chasen away,"  the Innkeeper agreed.  "All right, create a café-bar for Ethan and his clansmen along with all the rest, and set the other elevators to skip those two floors  Yerodin, do you have a contact spell for the coven?"

            "Yes."

            "Call and find out what they're planning, what they'll need. If we have to move them to the ballroom, do it.  What's next?"  

           "Chasen,"  Zuri said again, meaning something else about Chasen.

            "Yes?"

            "He's contacting Mekonnen on that private mirror."

            Yerodin and Egil glanced at the security chief.  A complete sentence from Zuri was a rarity.

            "Has Mekonnen manifested?"  the Innkeeper asked.

           "No."

            "Everyone still keeps an eye on Chasen,"  the Innkeeper said.

            Chaldun and the others nodded.

            "What's next?"

The Clansmen

           In a meeting room next to a full café-bar, Lorant, Maks and Nansen, wearing spiral-sewn leggings and angarkas(3) in fine muslin, sat at one end of a large table facing the priests, Produs, Ranon and Stap, who wore their red and green togas.  The four young men with laptops, who were called Guiscard, Hilarion, Imbert and Jere, wearing long pleated linen kalisari(4), sat facing each other down the sides.

            Maks began:  "Much of what Ethan said is to the point.  We are starting later than some others, but there are many of us, we are specialized and we are organized, which is to our advantage.  We are also in the right place at the right time to employ human technology in our efforts."

            "So what are we here for?"  Guiscard asked.

            "There are forty-one pieces of the Cosmic Egg,"  Maks said.  "We need to collect them."

            "Therefore,"  Nansen said, "we need to know their current form and their general location."  

           "And once we have them,"  Ranon the priest said,  "we must perform the rituals."

            "You four,"  Lorant nodded at the men with laptops,  "have a task with two parts:  Search accumulated human knowledge, using your computers, for descriptions of the pieces and of the ritual we must follow to turn the Wheel and remake the world."

            "We,"  Nansen said,  "will be doing the same thing, with different tools."

            "As will we,"  Stap said.

            "With three modes of attack,"  Maks said,  "we will efficiently and quickly acquire the knowledge we need to advance our task."

            "You guys want hardcopy?"  Hilarion asked.

            "Yes.  If you cannot obtain real books or scrolls, we will accept printout,"  Nansen said.  

           "What about you guys?"  Guiscard asked the priests.

            "We agree with the librarians,"  Stap said.  "We prefer real books, but we can deal with computers."

            "We'll need really good computers, lots of storage, wireless LAN, fastest internet access possible, full color laser printers, decoding spells, access code generators and game cubes, uh, recreational devices, for everybody."

            "You'll have what you need.  The Innkeeper has a purchasing agent who's waiting to talk to you and also someone called 'tech support.'  The large room next door is available, and you can arrange it how you please."

Chasen

            Chasen was regretting accepting this hire.  He was working solo and to even attempt an adequate job he needed at least two leg men.  If his employer wanted all forty-one clansmen watched, he needed a minimum of 120 watchers and there was no chance in hell that the Innkeeper wouldn't notice that.   With that in mind, he waited until the computer geeks were safely in the private elevator, before he took another one up to the roof.

            Selecting a table some distance from the serving area, he ordered fruit, yogurt and a local newspaper.   As the waiter left, he cast a privacy spell.  With that securely in place, he took a small mirror from his jacket pocket and spoke the activation phrase.

            The mirror clouded, then cleared, showing Mekonnen's face against a carefully neutral background.  

           "Thank you for taking my call."

            "What do you have to report?"

            "You're paying me, but I don't think you're getting your money's worth.  The big guy is working out in the gym, some of the others are off to the Brothel, and the geeks-the ones with the computers-disappeared into their private floor.   They've been doing this on a regular basis for the last ten days.  If they repeat their established pattern, they won't surface again for another 36 hours."

            "Did you follow the group to 22^nd Street?"  his employer asked gently.

            Chasen was relieved he was able to say:  "No, they invited the geeks to accompany them, which is how I know where they went."

            "Keep your attention on the young men around the computers.  The man with the book may call on them or they may go to him.  I want that book."

            "It might be simpler if I went directly after the man with the book,"  Chasen suggested.

            "If I knew who had the book, I would not need your help.  My haruspex is seeking a solution to that question, but he lacks the proper supplies at the moment.  Follow the computer-guided young men.  We know that at some point, they will come into close contact with the book."

            "Yes, patron(5)."

            "And I don't use a computer search because computers don't work reliably in this world."

            "I would not venture to ask."

            "But you were wondering."

            "Yes, patron, I admit I was."

            "Don't."

            "No, patron."  

            Bright light flashed, then the mirror faded to black.  Chasen sighed and slipped it into his coat pocket.  Not for the first time, he wondered if he was going to complete this hire alive.   If Mekonnen stayed in the other world, he might.  And Mekonnen was more likely to stay away if he managed to find the book and get it to Mekonnen.

Guiscard, Hilarion, Imbert and Jere
Lorant, Maks and Nansen
Produs, Ranon, and Stap

            "So what's this?"  Hilarion asked.  He sent Jere a quick message:  H>J:  L is loading me with new stuff. :(   

            J>H   Too darn bad.  UR handler/new stuff.  I got Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden.  DS3.

            "As you can see, it's another list," Lorant said.  "A bibliography from Structure and Meaning Contrasted and Compared in a Selection of Philosophical Curiosities, a doctoral thesis by Terrence Blunt.  I think #4, The Inner Treasures of the Prime Star Lords, is promising, but track down anything you can."

"OK,"  Hilarion said.  He accessed the combined index of the Ancient Text Society.  Inner Treasures was in the Harvard-Yenching Library, which had excellent security.  Fortunately, it also had an excellent reproduction service.  He ordered a copy, and went on the next entry, # 5:  The Lissus Harmony.  

            Eight hours later, he entered names of everything he had looked at, everything he had looked at and ordered and everything he had looked at and not ordered, with his name, the date, and the list source key into the simple data base they were using, and went next door to the private café-bar.  

             Methodical as always, the computer faction had moved from straight liquor, tasted in alphabetical order, straight and with ice, water, and soda, to mixed drinks, tasted in alphabetical order within categories.  Hilarion was up to 'Bolero,' in the Rum sub-set of the Cocktail section.  

            He had moved along to a 'Borinquen' and was debating eating the gardenia garnish when Maks came in, brandishing a sheaf of hardcopy.

            "Is Nansen here?"  

            "No.  Why?"  But Maks turned and started to walk out.  At the door, he stopped and backed up as Nansen and Lorant came in.

            "Ha!  There you are.  Read this!"  Maks said to Nansen, passing over a small pamphlet.  

            Hilarion moved from the bar to a table near the three librarians.

            "So?"  Nansen demanded, looking at the title.  "I saw this.  It's an abridgment, not that helpful."  

            "This part,"  Maks said impatiently, leafing through the pages.  "Read the description here, half-way down the page."

            "'The Relic of Abidoun is a translation from Gnodipian into Kagwas of the Ceremony of the Beginning.'  Yeah, that would be helpful, but this thing's title says it all: Extracts from A History of Apocryphal Texts.  The book does not exist,"  Nansen said.

            "Next page,"  Maks directed.

            "'The Relic of  Abidoun is also called The Scroll of Orpmal, after its translator.'  Again, so?"  asked Nansen.

            "And this."  Maks handed Nansen a piece of paper.  Nansen handed Lorant the pamphlet.

            "The University of Lima has purchased a copy of The Scroll of Orpmal?"

            "Its existence is not all that apocryphal,"  Maks said.

             "Interesting,"  Lorant  said.  He'd been reading the pamphlet.  "By an eyewitness."

            "That's not possible,"  Nansen said.

            "What are we discussing?"  Ranon the priest asked, coming in.

            "It is possible," Maks insisted.

            "Not on Earth."

            "No, of course not. The book was written on Gnodip," Maks said.

            "What book?"  Ranon asked.  Lorant handed him the pamphlet.

            "Two points:  Other places have other laws.  Two: the Gnodipian Firsts may not be sworn to secrecy, the way the Firsts on Earth were,"  said Maks.

            "Possible,"  Lorant allowed.  

            Nansen nodded.  "Gnodip is many gates away.   The time flow out there is way different, so it's not impossible that their own Firsts, assuming that they have more than one, were still there when the original book was written."

            Ranon read from the pamphlet:  "'Ghling, one of the First, told me, Aoital the Scribe, to write this history.'  According to this, that's the opening line of the Scroll.  It doesn't say Ghling wrote it or that Aoital was there at the beginning.  The Scroll may be real, in that it exists, but it also may be apocryphal in the sense that it's fiction."

            "Or at least uncanonical,"  Nansen said.   He turned to Lorant.  What do you think?"

            "What about this, The History of Apocryphal Texts?"  Lorant asked.

            "What about it?"

            "What's its provenance?"

            "Oh, that's very well established.  Madalveus wrote it in Alvish, about a millennium or so ago.  It got translated into Urdu about 600 years before the present.  One of the earliest English settlers in India put it into English about four hundred years ago.  It was in the original catalogue of the Ancient Text Society, when it was established, 344 years before the present,"  Maks said.  "This is just the good parts edition, a teaser.  There's a lot more in the unabridged version."

            "What's that second piece of paper?"  Nansen asked.

            "Part of the catalogue of the University library,"  Maks said.  "The Relic, or the Scroll, is in Lima."

            "And how did it get to Peru?"  

            "Concatenation," Maks offered.  "Confluence.  Whatever you call it, it's an established quality of the pieces of the Egg, people interested in the Egg, and writings about the Egg.  It moved, somehow, from Gnopid to Kagwas, and from Kagwas to Earth, and ended up in Lima.  What I'm saying is, let's get this and look at it.  At the very least, it's an interesting work."

            "I agree with Maks,"  Ranon said.

            "All right," Lorant said.  He turned to Hilarion, nibbling his gardenia.  "Track both of them down, the Relic and a full text of the History.  We'll want to see them."

            "Imbert is working the South American venue."

            "You work the secondary search,"  Lorant insisted.  "Items that arise from the primary investigation.  Find out all about the Relic and the History:  where they are, their individual provenance, and can we buy or copy them."

ooo

            Eventually, Hilarion sought out Maks, running him down in the café-bar.  Maks was surrounded by stacked coffee cups and printout.  Hilarion cleared off a space and sat.  Maks looked up.

            "So what's the problem?"  Maks asked.

            "Well, I've got good news and bad news."

            "Good news, please."

            "The University of Lima has the Relic-"

            "Which we knew."

            "-and the unabridged History, which we didn't know.  You were right about the concatenation bit.  It's happening more frequently now than it was 500 years ago."

            "Fine,"  Maks said.  "We'll make a deal for both.  How'd they get the History?"

            "The Ancient Text Society sold it to the Santra Library, but on the way there it was hijacked.  That was back eighty years ago, and the next thing we know it was in Lima fifty years later.  There's a large file of letters from all three institutions about who actually owns it, with many acerbic comments from Lloyd somebody, who had insured it during transit."

            "Lloyds. It's a company, not a library or a person; they do insurance. Well, we'll settle for a copy of it."

            "There's more.  What with that complication, I did a universal search of the school's system and the civic computer system down there, on both titles, and it turned out, the Lima police department have a report of the theft."

            "Of the History?"

            "Yes, and of the Relic, too.  That's the bad news,"  Hilarion said.  "They've both been stolen.  Again."

            "Ah.  Show me."  

            Hilarion flipped open his laptop and started keying.  

            "Is there any evidence Santra Library stole the items back?"

            "No,"  Hilarion said.

            "Lloyds?"

            "No."

            "Try this:  sort according to date, and cull out everything earlier than thirty years ago."

            "OK."

            "Cull everything from the Ancient Text Society, Santra Library, Lloyds, and the local police."

            "OK."

            "Cull everything that doesn't mention either title."

            "OK."

            "What's left?"

            "The library catalogue, the complete files of the school newspaper, and complete files of the alternate newspaper - apparently because they each mention the latest theft - some fund raising literature, blah, blah, and this mess."

            Maks took a quick skim through the first few messages of the e-mail file.  "Huh."

            "I don't know why the search included this,"  Hilarion said,  "there's no mention of either book.  It seems to be a personal correspondence between a librarian and an exchange student, mostly about religion."

            "Who are they?"

            "Francisco Naoko Guzman, an assistant librarian in Lima and Dyami Chandrapanthi, who says he's a Reverend Professor at some university in California."

            "Aren't we in California?"  Maks asked.

            "Technically, yes.  I still say we should be back home."

            "Well, I was never there, and while I haven't gone out that much, I like California, what I've seen of it, just fine.  Is a Reverend Professor like a priest?"

            "Maybe,"  Hilarion allowed.

            "'Acquire the objects and deliver them to us and your salvation is assured',"    Maks read.

            "What's salvation mean in this context?"

            "Some human religious idea, I think.  You know how weird they can get on that subject.  'If only one object is obtainable, item A will be of more help to us in the coming battle; therefore, obtain item A first and do not endanger yourself to also obtain item B after you have it.  Try for item B only if you are totally safe.'  Huh," Maks said again.  "Let me try something."    He typed briefly.  The screen blanked, then steadied.

            "What'd you do?"

            "Apocalypse."

            "What?"

            "Decoded it, I hope.  Right, here we go:  '...the Scroll of Orpmal/Relic of Abidoun will be of more help...'  Item A and item B-item A is the Relic, aka the Scroll, and item B is the History.  This man is suborning this other man to steal the books and take them somewhere."

            "But he's a librarian!"  Hilarion said.

            "No profession is entirely perfect,"  Maks said.

            "I tried deciphering this,"  Hilarion said.  "Nothing worked."

            "It wasn't ciphered, it was in code, an actual code, nothing to do with computers and a lot to do with information and communication.  The problem with codes is that they must maintain some connection somewhere with reality, even if it's only in the writer's and the reader's heads.  In this case, considering how easy the decode was, I think somewhere there's a code book with a list of code words and their meanings; more likely two code books.  The 'Apocalypse Spell,' the Spell of Revelation, re-establishes that direct connection and writes the messages en(6) clair(7), so we can read them."

            "So what's it say now?"  Hilarion asked.

            "Well, that's certainly interesting."

            "How much money are they talking about?"  Hilarion asked.

            Maks frowned at the screen then typed briefly.  "Converting from one human currency to another is easy.  I just don't know what 'one hundred thousand pesos' is in real money."

            "So where is this San Jose place?"

            "Check your atlas,"  Maks said. "I want to brief one of the priests."

            "Why?"

            "All the stuff about religion,"  Maks explained.  "He may see something there that we're missing, and besides, they're better at talking to Ethan."

            Maks explained the situation to Ranon Singleton, concluding:  "According to the latest e-mail, Señor(8) Guzman will meet Dyami Chandrapanthi, who is a Reverend Professor at the Anglo-Sanskrit Theological University-"

            "The what?"  Ranon the priest asked.

            "It's some sort of religious school, in Vallejo, north of here.  Anyway, Guzman and Chandrapanthi will meet in a motel room in San Jose, which is south of here, the day after tomorrow, after Guzman, with both books, flies up from Lima, Peru."

            "I will explain to Ethan,"  Ranon agreed.

ooo

            "Ah, Ethan,"  Ranon the priest said.  "We have something we want to talk to you about."

            "Make it fast, I'm on my way to the gym."

            Ranon, with help from Maks and Hilarion, finished the presentation and waited for Ethan's reaction.

            "How much?"  Ethan demanded.

            "It's human money,"  Maks  reminded him.  "It doesn't matter."

            "For books?"

            "Books of directions, in a way," Hilarion said.

            "About what?"

            "Why we're here?  Our hero task, remember?"  Ranon prompted.

            "The Egg?"  

            "The Egg,"  Hilarion agreed.

            "We don't need directions,"  Ethan insisted.  "We get the forty whatever pieces and uh, ..."

            "Well, there's a little bit more," Maks said.

            "It's not just piling everything into a triumph," Ranon said.

            "And dancing around it," Hilarion said.

            "It's a matter of timing," Maks said.

            "And we need to fine tune the ritual," Ranon said.

            "Why you?"  Ethan asked.

            "The man with the books is a librarian,"  Maks said.   "Not a very good one, I mean he stole from the library, but we think he'll be more receptive to us, not to the hunter-types.  We talk the same language."

            "OK.  And you need a car?  Why?"  Ethan asked.

            "The books are in San Jose,"  Maks said again.

            "Where's that?"

            "About an hour and a half south of here."

            "I've seen book stores around here, in the City, I mean."

            "The books we need are coming in on an airplane," Hilarion said.

            "To the San Jose airport,"  Maks said.

            "How do you know that?"  Ethan asked.  

            Maks opened his mouth, then shut it and looked over at Hilarion.

            Hilarion considered explaining the Net, e-mail, fire walls, electronic snooping, and the entire concept of hacking.   He gave up.  "We looked them up on our computers,"  he said.

            "OK,"  Ethan said.  "Get the books, have somebody read them.  And remember, if I'm going to dance, I need at least an hour to practice."

            "We'll remember."

            After Ethan departed for the gym,  Maks said,  "We'll need clothes."

            "What?" Hilarion asked.

            "Why?"  Ranon asked.

            "Everyone who goes off to the Brothel wears street clothes."  

            "Even Ethan wears different clothes when he goes out,"  Hilarion agreed.  "Let's ask the Innkeeper."

ooo

            The Innkeeper, meeting the three Clansmen near one of the exits of the lounge, listened, then shook his head and said,  "Clothes appropriate for the Brothel will attract attention on the street in San Jose.   Is what you want?"

            "Ah..."

            "No."

            "We have a tailor who is reasonably au(9) courant(10) with local styles.  You can discuss the occasion with him and see what he suggests.  This way."  

            "And we're going to need some human money," Maks said.

            "The cashier will advance you what you need.  How much will that be?"

            "Sixty cubed,"  Ranon said.  "Uh, in decimal English, $216,000.

            "Certainly,"  the Innkeeper said.  "There is a mandatory briefing on how to conduct yourselves in modern human society, and what to do if difficulties arise.  The Inn retains Polias and Coronis for legal matters, and also the Kearney Agency for escort work."

            "Hey, we may be smart, but we're still heroes.  We can get around on our own,"  Hilarion.  "We can all drive, we passed the course."

            "And when were you planning on leaving the Inn?"

            "Tomorrow night," Maks said.

            "In time to get there before midnight,"  Hilarion said.  

ooo

            So, Chasen thought, something out of the ordinary routine at last:   A priest, a scribe and a librarian, in a huddle with the Innkeeper.  If it wasn't just the start of a Bar Joke, it might be important.  He kept walking, but doubled back behind some of the ubiquitous potted palm trees, sat down and began to read his paper, keeping an eye on the mixed trio.  

ooo

            "So, here are your car keys, your licenses, your panic buttons, and your money."

            "Thank you,"  Ranon said.

            "Remember, since that thing a year ago, humans in this country are very xenophobic.  Don't speak anything but English or Spanish."

            "We'll remember."

            The three clansmen left the briefing room and went off to the elevators.

ooo

            Where were the geniuses going?  Apparently, they were headed for the garage.   OK.  Chasen took his time as the boys sorted out the seating and who was going to drive, then followed the candy-apple red Cadillac Escalade in his quiet Toyota.  

Guzman

            Guzman, the less than perfect librarian, followed the Reverend Professor's instructions, even when he was already sure he hadn't been noticed.   The ticket checkers in Lima had paid no special attention to him, the stewards had paid only the same attention as to any other business class passenger.  In Los Angeles no one had paid any unusual attention to him:  The customs agents had passed him through after the usual post-11-September search and interrogation, both of which were stringent but expected and impersonal.    

            He went to the San Jose shuttle ticket outlet and arranged to take the next flight north, without attracting any attention that he noticed.  When the plane lifted off, he sighed, having successfully 'broken his trail,' exactly as instructed.  

            The Reverend Professor had strongly impressed on him that what he carried was valuable, not only to the faculty of the University of Lima and the faculty of the Anglo-Sanskrit Theological University at Vallejo, but to Others.  These Others also wanted the book and the scroll, and only by following the professor's instructions would Guzman, and his immortal soul, be safe.  There was also the matter of the deposit.

            What would happen if the Others took the book and the scroll was almost too terrible to think of, so Guzman turned his mind to the next set of instructions, reading them again.   The penultimate step involved a meeting and half a playing card.  He could do that, Guzman told himself, opening his paperback and regarding the jaggedly cut Queen of Hearts he was using as a bookmark.  He moved it to his right jacket pocket and made sure the flap was smooth over it.

            He was much surer about driving.  Even California couldn't intimidate someone who commuted in Lima.  Just to be on the safe side, however, he said a quick prayer, holding the large cross he wore; then he inspected his new international drivers license again.  Satisfied with his preparations, he waited as patiently as he could for the short flight to end.

ooo

            "How will we know which one he is?"

            "We'll have him paged,"  Ranon said, walking over to a white phone.  "I saw this on the television."

ooo

            "White Courtesy Phone for Francisco Naoko Guzman.  Francisco Naoko Guzman, White Courtesy Phone, please."

ooo

            "How much of a fuss is he likely to make?"  Maks asked.  

            "Yes, we're not the ones he's come to meet,"  Ranon said.

            "We're going to be offering him a lot more money,"  Hilarion pointed out.   "I don't think he'll care."   

ooo

            Gripping his carry-on tightly, Guzman walked into the airport.  He picked up his checked luggage-one wheeled suitcase-and looked around for a car rental agency.  He heard his name called over the PA system and stopped.  This wasn't according to the plan, but he had been cautioned that emergencies might happen and he should be alert for any contingency.  After all, the call included his middle name, the name his mother gave him and which he never used in Lima.  He had used it in his e-mails with the Reverend Professor; this message must have come from him.  He picked up a white phone.

            "May I help you?"

            "This is Guzman,"  he whispered.

            "Please speak up, sir."

            "This is Guzman!"

            A blond man, one of three surrounding the phone next to his, looked up.

            "This is Guzman,"  Guzman said, more normally.

            "One moment, I will connect you."

            Hilarion said:  "Mr.  Guzman?"

            "Yes?"  Guzman said into the phone.

            Hilarion tapped him on his shoulder.  "Mr. Guzman?  We need to talk to you."

            Guzman caught his breath and jerked around.  

            Ranon nudged Maks, who was speaking into the phone:  "Hello?  Hello?  I'm not getting anyone."  Maks looked up, then straightened.

            Guzman saw three tall fair skinned men, clearly related to each other, with what a writer of an English telenovela(11) would call 'ruggedly handsome' features.  They wore khaki pants, brown lace-up boots, white shirts with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open.  In each shirt pocket were a laser pointer, a Rapidograph, and a dry-erase marker, each in a different color: red, blue, and purple. One of the men, with long blond hair in a queue down his back, carried a laptop; one, with a crew cut, carried an aluminum briefcase and the third man, the one with the shaven head, was empty-handed.  They all had dazzling smiles.  They seemed to radiate a feeling of friendship and camaraderie.  Warmed and charmed, he smiled back at them.  "Yes?"  he said.

            "Hi!  You don't know us,"  the one with the laptop said.

            "But we know about you."

            "We want to talk about the Relic."

            "And the History."

            "Let's go to the café."

            "If we're not going to the hotel room, shouldn't we go on to the university?"  Guzman asked.

            The three men exchanged quick glances.  "Later,"  one of them said.

            Guzman stopped smiling.  Just inside the café he balked. "Uh, do you have something for me?"

            "Oh, yes," said the man with the aluminum briefcase.

            "Of course,"  the third man said.  

            "Come sit down and we'll show you."

            "Show me now,"  Guzman said.

            "We're not supposed to show you the money where other humans can see it," the man with the laptop said.  

            "Not money.  The other half,"  Guzman said, dropping his suitcase and reaching into his pocket for the Queen of Hearts.

            "Of what?"  the third man asked, looking blankly Guzman.

            "You're not from the university,"  Guzman said, stepping back and leaving the card where it was.  

            "No."

            "We're from a different library,"  Maks said.

            "Argh!  Vade retro me, Satana!(12)" Guzman held up the cross he wore.

            Alarmed, the three heroes stepped back.

            I knew it!  Guzman thought.  The Reverend Professor was right!  The Others are after the books, and these are They!

            "Is he having a fit?" Ranon asked.  "Humans do have fits."

            "I don't think it's a fit,"  Maks said.  "I think he wants the money."

            "That doesn't seem entirely likely," said Hilarion, as Guzman snatched up his suitcase, turned and ran out the café door.

            "We're being watched,"  Maks muttered.

            "Right,"  Hilarion said.  "Let's sit down and think about this."

            "We should follow him,"  Ranon said, taking a step after Guzman.

            "No,"  Maks said, blocking the priest for a moment.  "That man in the gray pants and shirt, with the gun and symbolic shield, that's one of the airport guards the Innkeeper's briefing warned us about.  We should leave."

ooo

            Guzman spotted a crowd and hid himself in the center of it.  The enhanced group of people split to exit through several doors opening on to a wide pavement where a bus waited.  Everyone got on.  Guzman stopped in the door:   "Va este autobus a una agencia de alquiler de automoviles?"

            "Does this bus go to a car rental agency?  Only four or five.  Get on,"  the driver said.

            No one noticed a man hurry out of the airport, glance at the front of the bus, then speed off towards an illegally parked car.

            Guzman tried to calm himself.  Fortunately, there was a line at the car rental counter.  He kept glancing around, but the three blond men did not reappear.  His breathing returned to near normal, and he even remembered his English as he completed the forms and handed over his VISA card.  

            He picked up his car and headed back the way the shuttle bus had come.  He missed the turn for Airport Parkway, and was disconcerted to find himself suddenly and without making a turn, on Technology Drive.  He paid little attention to the car following him as he decided to go back and find Airport Parkway.

            Guzman turned left on Sonora Avenue.  At the stop sign, he read 'North First Street', which was what he supposed to be on after making a turn off Airport Parkway.  He took his time before deciding to turn right.  The car behind him waited patiently as he made up his mind.

ooo

            Chasen followed the man with the books.  The subject obviously never heard of turn signals, he thought, turning south after the rental car.   He experienced a brief spasm of nostalgia.  In the old days, he could have just loosed the rakkis(12) on the man, then followed at his leisure, picking up the inedible bits.  

ooo

            Guzman, still alarmed by the abortive meeting with Maks, Ranon, and Hilarion, was ready to see dangers everywhere and he quickly noticed the car behind him.  Exceeding the speed limit and earning a rebuke from the car's speakers, he tried to outrun his pursuer.

            BOOKQUEST, Guzman read.  A warehouse for books.  Be alert for any contingency.  Books were his life, books had gotten him into this dangerous predicament, perhaps books could help him get out of it.  He turned into the parking lot.  He got out of the car for a quick look around, then hid the car as best he could around the back, in the shadow of a dumpster.

            He pulled his rolling suitcase out of the car and, taking his carry-on, hurried quietly along the side of the warehouse where the shadows were deep. He scuttled across the large metal garage door, passing a small human sized door towards one edge.  As he neared the human door, it opened.

            A security guard, older than Guzman, and even more sedentary, tried to exit.  

            Guzman let go his rolling suitcase and, fueled by desperation, hit the guard in the face with the carry-on, knocking the guard back.   Guzman hurried in after him.

            Guzman found himself in an oil stained loading bay:  a large empty area, with wheeled canvas carts carrying brown cardboard parcels and manila padded envelopes, with a few pallets laden with larger cardboard shipping boxes off to the side by a small forklift.  

            The guard fell and Guzman hit him again.  "Perdone(14) Usted(15),"  Guzman said, his English deserting him again.  He knelt and took the guard's handcuffs, using them to bind the guard's arms behind him.  "I will return directly and you can arrest me and I will be safe, but first I must hide the items."  

            He locked the entrance he had used, took his rolling suitcase and his carry-on and hurried across the loading bay, where he went through a pair of double doors in the interior wall.  He found himself in the mailroom:  a long table with packing materials ready to hand, tape, scissors, packing paper, bubble wrap and a dedicated printer, with a socket for a plug-in inventory device;  surrounded by several of the small wheeled carts, each with a stack of books and its own small hand held inventory computer.  He looked over all the books, looking for one in particular.  There, that stack, the ones on the bottom, they were the right size; and they were blank, not even a title on the spine.  Excellent.  He eyed the stack of books, took the printout inventory with attached mailing label, and selecting a large mailing box, set it up, taping the bottom closed and lining it with bubble wrap.  He took the History and the Scroll out of his carry-on.   

            Looking around again, he saw a bundle of shipping tubes.  They were too long, and he sliced one in half with the huge paper scissors, making it approximately the size of the Scroll.  He removed the Scroll from its leather carrying case, removed the bisected modern scroll from its mailing tube and swapped them, putting the Scroll in the tube, while half the modern scroll went into the leather carrying case.  Quickly, he packed the History, in the middle of the rest of the blank journals, and the Scroll, in its makeshift mailing tube, and the rest of the books in the original stack, adding packing peanuts and folding the ends of the bubble wrap over the contents.  He tore apart the inventory and the label, put the inventory on top of the stack of books, taped the box shut and slapped on the label. He took the left-over half of the cardboard mailing tube, with its portion of the modern scroll it still contained and buried them deep in the large box of packing chips, scattering some on the floor.  He took the extra blank book and put it in his carry-on.

            He returned the leather scroll case to the carry-on, placing it on top of the blank book.  Setting up a new shipping box, he placed the small suitcase in it and filled the volume with packing peanuts.  He closed the flaps, but did not tape them shut,  and placed the box on the back of the table, with the other box he had packed and some others that he took out of one of the larger wheeled carts.  

            He abandoned his rolling suitcase and left the mail room to return to the guard.

ooo

            Chasen, locating Guzman's parked car and noticing the wheel marks in the foundation planting bed, had no trouble discovering where Guzman had gone, but was delayed while he picked the lock.  Walking silently into the loading bay, he saw the guard.

ooo

            The guard had managed to use his spare handcuff key and had his hands free.  He didn't notice Chasen behind him.  All he saw was Guzman, returning.  He had his gun in one hand and with the other was struggling to free his radio from his belt.

            "Stop!"  the guard said.

            "Help me!"  Guzman called.

            "Stay right there, fella.  The police will be here in just a minute."  He raised the radio to his mouth.

            "Dammit,"  Chasen said.  He foresaw a swarm of pesky humans interfering with his plans.   He drew a knife from his sleeve and stabbed the guard in the shoulder, causing him to drop the radio.

            The guard shot Guzman and slowly turned and faced Chasen, pointing the automatic at him.  

            Chasen killed him with a thrust into his heart.   He stepped on the radio, then walked over to Guzman.  Dead, worse luck.  No books.  Where was the man's luggage?

            Chasen looked around, then focused on the floor.  There were faint wet and dirty tracks from the wheels, leading back into the warehouse.  He followed them into the mailroom.  

            Books, boxes, and bins.  The large suitcase was over by the table.  

            Chasen lifted the rolling case onto the work table and opened it.  Clothes, but no books.

            On the floor around one end of the long table were white packing peanuts.  On the table itself were mailing boxes, an unsealed one back behind a number of sealed boxes.  It was large, with the lid just folded down.  He opened it, and found the carry-on, wrapped in bubble wrap and nestled in white hard foam peanuts.  Opening the small suitcase, he saw a scroll case, about 13 inches long and 4 inches in diameter, of hard, smooth finished leather, with an unknown glyph stamped on the lid.  With it was an untitled, leather-bound book, approximately 10 inches by 13 inches.  Good.  He closed the suitcase, and taking it and the larger case, returned to the loading bay, where he searched Guzman's body, taking all the Peruvian's papers:  passport, wallet, plane ticket, international driver's license, and the paperback book with the stamp marking it as property of the University of Lima.

            In the underground parking facility of the Inn, Chasen drove past the candy-apple red SUV.  Apparently the clansmen managed to return safely; with that thought, he dismissed the group from his mind.  They had only been a means to an end and now he had no need to think about them at all.

            He unloaded the wheeled suitcase, and taking it and the small carry-on, took the elevator up to the roof.   

            He ordered a martini and, taking a quiet table, sipped it.  When it was half gone, he took out his mirror.

ooo

            "I have completed your mission,"  Chasen said.  

            "Ah,"  Mekonnen said.  "One moment."

            Across the table, the air thickened, then opened.  Mekonnen sat in the chair opposite Chasen.  

            Chasen rose, and placed the small suitcase in front of Mekonnen, who opened it eagerly.  He took the leather book.  He opened it, then let it fall back.  He opened the scroll case, removed and unrolled its contents:  a panoramic photo of the view from the top of Everest.

            "What is this?"  Mekonnen said softly.  He opened the book and displayed its blank pages to Chasen.  "This is not what I hired you to bring me."

            Chasen stood and stepped back.  "It is what the man was carrying, which is what you told me to get for you.  You never told me the title, and you never mentioned the scroll at all.  I brought them to you without even opening the book, which is what you told me to do."

            "Liar and thief!"  Mekonnen said, standing himself, and growing more massive and less human of face.  Energy crackled around his hand as he raised it.

            "None of that,"  the bartender said.

            "Keep back!"  Mekonnen said, turning to the bartender and pointing at him.  

            Chasen dived under a table as lightening flashed.

            There was no thunder.  Chasen, listening hard, heard nothing except a resumption of normal bar talk.  He lifted his head and took a quick look around.

            The bartender was back behind the bar, and Mekonnen was stone.  The Innkeeper was surveying the new statue.  He held his hands up, palm to palm, and slowly spread them apart.  A glowing ring grew between his hands.  When the opening he created was of a sufficient size, he turned his hands palm out to Mekonnen and pushed the ring over him; then he closed the portal.  

            The Innkeeper glanced around, gestured the tables and chairs into order, and vanished.

            Chasen got up off the floor, took a seat at the bar and ordered another martini.

ooo

            Chasen heard the phone ring.  No one could avoid hearing that phone ring.  He picked it up.

            "Chasen, a problem has arisen with your bill, and the Innkeeper would like to speak with you as soon as possible."

            Oh, darn.  "Certainly.  I'll attend him as soon as I complete my ablutions."

            "Thank you."

            Oh, darn, darn, darn.  Chasen gulped down a pick-me-up from the small refrigerator, then took a cold shower.  

            He had realized as soon as Mekonnen had stood up that he was in real trouble.  The demon thought Chasen had betrayed him or possibly just cheated him.  Either way, Mekonnen was after his blood.

            He had left the mirror on the bar when he had staggered to the elevator.  Even if  the Innkeeper had already released Mekonnen, the demon couldn't use the mirror to track him.  As long as he stayed at the Inn, he was safe.  Outside, he had no expectation of safety.


            "Chasen,"  the Innkeeper said,  "Mekonnen has canceled your credit."

            A good move, Chasen thought, and one he should have foreseen.  "Ah,"  he said.  "He is recovered, then."

            "Yes."

            After a brief silence, Chasen said,  "I was wondering..."

            "Should I understand that you find it inconvenient to leave the Inn at the moment?"

            "Very inconvenient, yes."

            "Your own account is not sufficient to maintain you in your current quarters, or for that matter, in any of the guest quarters.  You've been overdrawn for several years."

            "I see."

            "However,"  the Innkeeper said,  "I am not interested in turning you out."

            "Thank you."

            "Provided you work for your keep."

            Chasen swallowed.  "Fine,"  he said.

            "Here's your new room number.  Move your belongings, then report to Chaldun, the maintenance manager."

ooo

            Chaldun looked at Chasen.  "Got any magic?"

            "Ah, no."

            "Then there's your cleaning cart.  Dust the tables and statutes in each hall first, use the yellow dust cloths on the tables, and the feather duster on the statutes.  Then you use the carpet sweeper on the runner and the dust mop on the wood floors.  Start at the top."

Sylvia Corbin

            "Look, Ma, I have to go,"  Sylvia Corbin said.

            "But are you coming down this weekend, Sylly?"  her mother asked.

            "Maybe, but it depends."

            "On what?"

            "Gotta go."  Sylvia rang off.  She hated being called Sylly.  Her mother and all her high school friends still used her baby nickname.  Syliva's college years had been spent in northern California, far from home.  Her mother still lived down in Oceanside, but Sylvia managed to avoid visiting more than once or twice a year.  She insisted on driving, which kept the few visits even shorter than they could have been.

            The phone rang again.  Sylvia assumed it was her mother again and ignored it.  

            Her partner David Chang's voice came out of her answering machine:  "Sly, pick up."

            Sylvia didn't mind being called 'Sly.'  She picked up the handset.  "Hi.  What's up?"

            "We got a call.  Body in a warehouse.  It's on your way in."

            "Where?"

            "Walsh, off the San Tomas, near the airport, 'Bookquest' in big letters on the front."

            "OK, it'll be about half an hour, depending on traffic."

            Walsh Avenue was just west of the airport, in the freight handling area:  many sheet metal and concrete block warehouses, left plain and unadorned, and a few offices of sprayed concrete blocks, usually in pastel colors, with redwood beams sticking out of the walls, sometimes supporting second floor decks or landings, often not, with radio and microwave receivers of various sizes and orientations on their roofs.  These were often surrounded by landscaped berms with thumb-thick saplings stuck here and there amid plantings of salmon or magenta iceplant.  The warehouses were surrounded by cargo containers, tractors, trailers, stacks of both wood and plastic pallets, forklifts and old fashioned closed delivery vans.

BOOKQUEST,

with large blue letters on the side of a typical corrugated metal warehouse, was towards the east end of Walsh.

            Sly saw the coroner's van waiting outside.  She parked away from the activity and showed her badge to the uniformed officer who was acting as sentry.  She ducked under the yellow tape and stopped, while her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.  

            Everything was apparently running in Chang's usual orderly style.  Sly signed in with the Recorder and was handed two pairs of paper booties.

            "Two?"  she asked.  

            "Change for the mailroom.  The CS people are trying oblique lighting on some shoe prints there."

            Sly nodded and, carrying the spare booties and carefully avoiding all the evidence markers, looked for and found David Chang, who was looking at the first of a pair of male corpses.

            "So what happened?"

            "The way I see it, the guard shot this guy, and then was knifed by a third guy."

            "Who is he?"

            "No ID,"  David said.  "We can get a name from the rental car outside."

            "Anything?"

            David indicated half a playing card in an evidence bag.  The Queen of Hearts.  "It was a meet.  I don't think it was drugs, which leaves ransom or espionage."

            "Or whistle blowing or smuggling or something else,"  Sly said.  "And why here?"

OO:OO:OO

Notes:
1)  found in California and named in honor of Eschscholz
2)  heavenelement
3)  tunic
4)  tunic
5)  patron
6)  in
7)  clear
8)  master
9)  in the
10)  running
11)  televisionstory
12)  go behind me satan
13)  dog
14)  forgive
15)  you