Romney Balvance and the Katarin Stone

by J Jordan

  “Maybe, someday, we stop doing this. We could take all of this money and do something good with it. I can’t think of anything right now, but maybe it could be something that cancels out all the bad things we’ve been doing.”

  His voice lowered into a whisper, as a gaggle of older gentlemen passed by. They were enthralled by the ancient aviation. Romney decided it was probably a mode of transportation back in their day. His focus returned to Cora.

  “Let’s do this one last thing, and then we stop. Devon’s rich and powerful. He can find someone else to do the rest of his work. But you and me and Ty. We pool our money together and do something big, something that can keep us all afloat for a while. Something that helps people.”

  Romney had the brief idea of opening a health clinic in downtown Lanvale, but it quickly faded out of his mind. Cora nodded along, but her smile was mirthless.

  “I’d like to believe that.”

  The phone buzzed once more in his pocket. He had more unread messages.

  “It’s gonna happen,” said Romney, “but first, we have to find Ty and meet him at the Reymus Building. They want to meet in an hour.”

  Cora’s brow returned to its usual furrow. The scowl followed close behind.

  “You are ridiculous, Mr. Balvance.”

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and showed her the screen. When she looked up, her annoyance had not moved.

  “So now they’re even more cryptic. Wonderful.”

  “We need to find Ty,” said Romney. “We have less than an hour now.”

  Cora didn’t budge. Her glare was still fixed squarely on Romney, like two suns focused through a black-framed lens, on an ant. Romney sighed.

  “This is the last job we take. I promise.”

  “Camerrans never dealt in promises,” said Cora. “Promises are broken every day. That’s why they only dealt in oaths. An oath is unbreakable. And the only way to break one is death.”

  Cora advanced on him, index finger out like a dagger. She poked him in the chest with it.

  “So if you mean what you say, then you take a solemn oath. Swear on your life, right here and now, that this is the last job you take from Devon Reymus.”

  Romney looked to the other people in the museum. They had suddenly found something else to pay attention to, which certainly wasn’t the couple having a feud in the corner. He felt the need to explain the situation, and that they were not a couple, but the moment was passing toward the far exit, head down. And besides, there was a more important matter at hand. Cora’s accusing finger was now an inch from his chin. He took in a deep breath before he spoke.

  “I swear that this is my last job with Devon.”

  Cora shook her head. She took his hand, balled it into a fist, and then placed it over his heart.

  “Repeat after me. I, Romney Balvance . . . ”

  Romney repeated the line with little enthusiasm. He was beginning to get annoyed. Another group had flocked toward the plane and were watching Romney’s oath instead.

  “Son of your father’s name.”

  “Son of Jim.”

  “Swear an oath to Cora Queldin.”

  Romney repeated the line, making eye contact with a teenager as she lifted her phone from her purse. He shook his head, but she must have misinterpreted the signal as “go ahead and stream this all over the internet.” Cora had paused to test if he was following along. He heard what she said.

  “Daughter of Xerno,” repeated Romney.

  “That I will do no more work for Devon Reymus.”

  “After this job,” added Romney.

  “Say it.”

  “That I will do no more work for Devon Reymus, after this job.”

  “And I, Cora Queldin, daughter of Xerno, accept your oath and bind you to your word.”

  “We have plenty of witnesses if you need one.”

  He indicated the group, which had now fanned around them in a semicircle. The teenager stood in front of the group, phone held in landscape mode. Her grin foretold the myriad views and likes her footage would receive. Yes, Romney Balvance, son of Jim, the world would also hold you to that oath. His gaze returned to Cora. Her glare had not improved.

  “Never break your oath. If you do, you will be exiled from your clan, disowned by your family, and disavowed by all who knew you. A broken oath is death for a Camerran.”

  “Wait, I did not agree to that.”

  “Oh, planning on breaking the oath? Already?”

  “No, but that’s some pretty serious stuff. Excuse me, can you please stop recording this?”

  He moved toward the teenaged camerawoman, but she retreated into the semicircle. She held the phone over her head, to record the juicy bits.

  “Oaths are serious. It’s important that we stop. We can’t do this forever.”

  Romney made a rude gesture at the cell phone. He was only boosting its viral potential.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “Romney?”

  “Yeah, I get it. I swore the oath and all that crap. No more dirty work. This is the last one.”

  Romney and Cora made their way out of the museum with the small crowd in tow. He checked his phone as they reached the car.

  “We’re gonna be late.”

  ◆◆◆

  They recovered the Jade Scar from Romney’s apartment and made it to the Reymus Building in record time. Then they spent twenty minutes in the lobby while Tykeso drove from Cresdale. He was still in his gi when he stepped into the lobby. The folks at Reymus Industries paid him no mind. At this point, they were letting anyone in.

  The three associates made their way to the gilded elevator, where Romney swiped his pass, and then stepped through the opening doors. After a silent elevator, the doors opened again on Mila’s office. Her desk was vacant and her signature tablet gone. Romney could hear the slight din of conversation from behind the massive double doors. He pressed his ear against the crack to see if he could make out anything in particular, only to be surprised by a sudden outburst from the other side. His phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “Meeting running long,” said Mila’s message. “Wait by the couches.”

  And then, another buzz.

  “DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING ON MY DESK.”

  Cora had not received this message. She had taken a seat in Mila’s chair and was rummaging through her desk drawers. The second drawer on the left revealed a laptop folded. She did what any curious person with a working knowledge of Vock computers would do. She started typing passwords into the login screen. The third try worked. And after a long loading time, the screen opened to an empty desktop. Romney hovered over her shoulder as she sorted through files and folders. There were a handful of documents and pictures, but nothing really juicy.

  The few documents they did open contained bits of research on the Katarin stone, but none of it seemed to amount to anything. Mila was searching for it in Tambridan, scouring the inventories of universities and museums across the country, pulling excerpts from ancient books and their modern translations. She even tried comparing her research against the La Katarina Voca, better known in Camerran as The Voice of the Katarin. This is the quintessential book for following the path of Katrese, used as a bible among Katresean priests and pastors. In modern times, the Tambridesian like to call it the Voca Buena.

  Mila had focused on the Second Book of La Voca Katarina, where Eva was bestowed a Katarin stone. In these passages, Eva wore the stone during her daily prayers. When Eva was laid to rest, Alda, her eldest daughter, would mandate that all priestesses wear a Katarin stone during prayer, in honor of her mother. Unfortunately, the Voca Buena never mentioned where Eva’s Katarin stone ended up. Or if it was even the true Katarin stone to begin with.

  Mila’s sources were cited, her research and cross-references sound, and her comparisons between texts well thought out. But it was all heading down the wrong path. The Katarin stone was in Lanvale all along. It must have been a shock to them when Romney found it. A w
elcome shock.

  The images were mostly black-and-white photographs of groups of people, usually standing around outside, trying their best to look comfortable and failing miserably at it. Cora knew these to be archaeological dig sites. She recognized the Camerran highlands, circa 1957 most likely. That would place it around the time of the great Clan Kinsey Dig, which uncovered some of the first evidence linking Ingrid Kinsey to her tribal roots. Cora didn’t bring this up, since they were sneaking through Mila’s personal laptop.

  Romney had also noticed something about this picture, which he kept to himself. It involved the man standing in the second row, third from the far-left side of the frame. He was a man in overalls, his hair slicked back and his face smudged with dirt. He was the only man smiling in the picture. This was unsettling to say the least. But another aspect of the photo chilled Romney to his core. Perhaps it was a coincidence, or a long-lost blood relative, but Romney couldn’t shake the similarities from his mind. He had seen this smile on magazines and in newspapers, and a few times on television.

  It couldn’t have been Devon Reymus. The photo was over fifty years old, and the smiling man was no older than the Devon of today.

  A commotion from behind the double doors ended their inquest. Cora logged out, shut the laptop, and returned it to its drawer. She propped her feet on the desk for good measure, while Romney and Tykeso sat at either end, just as the doors opened. When Mila emerged, her exhausted expression took on renewed venom. Before she could speak, she was shoved aside by another woman in a satin gown.

  The dark gown was formfitting and looked restrictive in places, but the lady wore it like a second skin. Each step in her high heels was grace and poise in equal measures. The jewels and baubles on her hands and ears were like the magnificent features of a rare bird. One could also make note of her brown hair, hanging like a short velvet cape on her back, if one weren’t so suddenly drawn to her amber eyes. This was the eyeshadow and the blush carefully applied to her. The beautiful bird drifted to the elevator, her features locked into a dreamy determination.

  It should be noted that women this beautiful don’t walk. They stroll, float, waft, wander, gallivant, flicker, coast, drift, and occasionally meander.

  Romney tried to put her face to the hundreds of advertisements, movies, and TV shows he had seen. He didn’t have to think hard on it.

  This was Thera Reymus. Actress, fashion designer, artist, wine maker, and part-time yoga instructor. A Jane of all trades, master of each.

  “I will hear no more of this nonsense,” hissed Thera Reymus. “Come, Garn. We’re leaving.”

  Garn Vock emerged next, Devon trailing closely behind him. The coolest man in the room was still wearing the same dark sweater from before. Romney assumed there were closets somewhere that contained nothing more than armies of this dark sweater and the accompanying blue jeans. Perhaps there were squadrons of dark-rimmed designer glasses too. Garn’s suave expression had been dulled into a grimace. He turned on his heels just as Devon was about to speak and hushed the man with an outstretched finger.

  “No more,” Garn said. “We will discuss this later.”

  “You guys are being ridiculous.”

  Thera stopped short of the elevator doors. She wheeled around on her stiletto heels and marched straight to Devon. Her face was still fixed in a dreamy haze, but it had gained an iron underbelly. Her eyes were now emerald torches. When she spoke, her voice was a knife sailing through the air. Sharp and hushed.

  “No, Devon. We are being reasonable. You are being careless and ignorant. And conceited, as always. As far as I’m considered, there is nothing left to discuss. You have no clue what you are doing.”

  “Sorry. Are we interrupting something?”

  The four richest people in the world turned on Romney. Mila and Devon looked ready to murder him. Garn was, as always, cool as ice. But it was Thera’s gaze that troubled Romney the most. The heat had gone completely, replaced with pure calculation. She drifted toward him, her amber eyes locked on his.

  Romney had the sudden feeling that she was sizing him up, as if she were looking for weak places in his armor. Within the eye shadow and mascara, her eyes were two rings of molten gold. He could almost see them bubble. And underneath, a tactical machine buzzed and whirred. Romney met her gaze the best he could and kept his grin in place.

  “We can come back later, if you want.”

  She smiled just as the air between them began to boil. The smile was perfectly straight, porcelain white, and framed in crimson.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” said Thera. “You are?”

  She offered her jeweled hand to Romney, and he shook it. He wished he had stuck to kissing the top of her hand, like they did in the movies. Her grip was stainless steel.

  “Romney Balvance,” he managed without discomfort.

  Her smile widened. Her grip tightened.

  “Thera Reymus. Devon’s mother. A pleasure, Mr. Balvance.”

  Romney nodded and politely withdrew his hand to his side, where it throbbed and slowly regained its feeling. Thera was still watching, the tactical machine still spinning.

  “May I ask what you do here?”

  “Consulting,” said Devon, jumping in to answer. “These three are my new hires.”

  “I take it you pick up the slack on Mr. Gray’s old project,” said Thera. “I liked Haddigan. He was a gentlemen and a Camerran, through and through. And that suit of his was so fetching. Of course, your suit looks nice. Even if it is from a department store.”

  “Mother,” said Devon.

  The air sizzled again as Thera turned a carefully heated gaze on Devon. No one stopped Thera Reymus. As Devon began to sputter in place, Thera returned her smile to Romney.

  “But it is not the suit that makes a man, is it?” she said. “It is the man who fills the suit. A good person can make the cheapest clothes look good. And you look fine in yours, Mr. Balvance. Congratulations. Men in Alta Mirra would kill for that kind of presence.”

  She was referring to her native city, Alta Mirra, the capital of Ontaran cinema and television. The entertainment mecca also produced internet videos, podcasts, and really anything posted anywhere that might hold someone’s interest. So long as it’s profitable. The city proper housed Ontar’s greatest stars. Thera’s residence was nestled along the coastline, a picturesque estate overlooking the sea. And came with a mortgage fit for seven or eight average lifetimes. Hers was middle-of-the-road, quaint in higher circles.

  These details had passed through Romney’s mind, but were stopped in mental traffic by something more pressing. Thera’s gaze was fixed on Romney the entire time. And he wasn’t sure if he had seen her blink.

  “Yes, an impressive stature for a small man. Around five foot seven. Correct? And a hundred thirty pounds. The term scrawny comes to mind, but I wouldn’t want to offend. Lithe, perhaps?”

  “That’s enough, mother,” said Devon. This gained him another heated glare from Thera, but this time it was locked in place.

  “Oh, sweet Devon,” she said, “we know better than this, don’t we? He is a small man. But it is the small man who hides in plain sight, who waits patiently for eons at a time, always watching, his dagger always at the ready. Be careful of this small man, Devon. He is the most precarious.”

  Thera motioned for Garn and, together, they moved into the elevator. Her gaze remained on Romney, the tactical machine still in motion as the doors closed.

  Devon spent the next few minutes ushering them through his penthouse and blustering on about misunderstandings and the need to leverage advantages, to strike while the iron was hot. Romney wasn’t listening. He was looking around at the various things on display. How many of these things were taken by force? What was magical? Perhaps there were other people out there, like Kedro Kyro. Keepers of these artifacts.

  Romney wondered about this as they moved into the teleconference room, then continued to ponder it as he took a seat in the mesh chair in front of Devon’s
desk. If these keepers were guardians, like Kedro was the reluctant guardian of the Jade Scar, then they wouldn’t want to let go of their charge. Even Kedro needed convincing. What had Devon done to get the others? Hopefully, he paid them absurd amounts of money.

  But Romney knew why they were protecting these powerful artifacts. At least he thought he did. At least he remembered part of his dream. Magic was not a thing to take lightly. His thoughts wandered back to Devon and his collection. How had Devon collected these artifacts? And at what price?

  No, no, said an inner voice, best not go there. He was close to ending this. Just one more payday and that was that. He had sworn an oath to Cora.

  At this moment, Cora’s polite smile was beginning to melt into a befuddled glare. And at that same moment, Romney had lost his train of thought. He was beginning to notice the silence in the room. Devon was waiting for his attention, hands steepled in front of him, grin in full.

  “We need to start taking the big risks. I know this is sudden, but we don’t have any more time to ease you in. You guys are good. You’re ready for this. Really, I mean that.”

  Romney looked to Cora and Tykeso for a cue. Tykeso had become a gargoyle once more, arms crossed over his chest. Cora was beginning to find the words to say, or polite versions of them, and was trying to put them together.

  “I just want to clarify something,” she started slowly. “When you say the Crown of Videra, you mean the crown of the Pharaoh Videra.”

  “Yeah,” said Devon, “that’s the one.”

  Cora nodded, though her frown had deepened at the answer.

  “So, this Crown of Videra, if we find it, would be a long-lost symbol of Andar's Pharaonic lineage, belonging to the descendants of the Prophet Andrea. It would be held sacred by the people of Andar. And their government would want it destroyed. If it does exist, its location would would be under constant heavy guard, assuming its true location is even known.”

  “Which is where you come in, Cora. You can help find the crown, right?”