Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "If I fall, you'll just make it worse if you try to catch me."

  Iskinder breathed a laugh. "You could let me go first."

  "Except you don't know where we're going," Jerry answered. They were at the bottom of the flight anyway, and he straightened, releasing his death grip on the handrail. "This way."

  Most of the offices were closed and locked, no lights on behind the pebbled glass of the doors; the Asian workroom was lit, but as they came up to it, the light went out, and Professor Abadie emerged, blinking mildly as he locked the door behind him. "You're here late, Dr. Ballard."

  "This was the only time Ras Iskinder was free to consult," Jerry answered, and Abadie nodded.

  "Oh, of course. Good night, then."

  "Good night," Jerry echoed, and waited as his footsteps receded down the hall.

  "My uncle the Marquis of Carabas," Iskinder quoted, with a grin. "I haven't heard you use my title so much since you were trying to get out of the swimming requirement."

  Jerry made a face. "Sorry. But I'd rather this seemed normal — and not Ptolemaic."

  "You're very certain about this medallion."

  Jerry nodded, and fished his keys out of his pocket to unlock his office door. It wasn't large, and the shelves were jammed with folders and cardboard boxes and battered books; there was barely enough room for a desk and two chairs, and the surface of the desk was a narrow strip between cliffs of folders. Iskinder gave it all a skeptical glance, and Jerry sighed.

  "It's not all mine — most of it's not mine. This is the room they always give the contract labor." He flipped on the overhead, and switched on the desk lamp as well, letting its warmer light spill across the desk.

  "It looks a bit more familiar than that," Iskinder answered.

  "It really isn't —" Jerry broke off, shaking his head. "Here, hand me that box, the one with the green tag."

  Iskinder scanned the shelves behind him, and lifted the box down to the table. Jerry loosed the string that held it closed, lifted off the lid and sorted through the tissue-wrapped bundles until he found the medallion of Ptolemy Auletes. He left it cushioned in its wrapping and handed it across.

  "It's pretty ordinary at first glance, but take a look at the reverse."

  Iskinder turned it carefully, and his eyebrows rose. "That is very interesting."

  Jerry offered him the magnifying glass. Iskinder took it, peering at the worn images.

  "That — it is the Soma."

  "I told you." Jerry couldn't help a smile. "And not the usual perspective, either."

  "No." Iskinder took a deep breath. "That's — it would be the biggest find since King Tut."

  "Bigger," Jerry said. "I want it, Iskinder."

  "Who wouldn't?" Iskinder held the medallion closer to the light. "Do you really think this is accurate?"

  "There's no way to tell except by looking," Jerry answered. "The way to test it is to look for the Pylon of Isis. If it's where it seems to be on the medallion, then you go for the Soma."

  "And if you say you're looking for the Pylon of Isis, you're more likely to get permits from the British," Iskinder said. "But — I hate to say it…"

  Jerry nodded, swallowing the familiar pain. "I haven't been in the field in twenty years."

  He stopped abruptly, frowning. Somewhere in the distance, a door had closed, heavy and soundless, a pressure in the air. No one else should be here — and there was nothing natural about it, either, this sense of wards falling into place like tumblers in a lock. He could feel the faint pressure of power, directed by an unfamiliar hand, and he looked sharply at Iskinder.

  "Yes, I feel it —"

  Jerry switched off the desk lamp, and slid the medallion into his jacket pocket. "Come on."

  He flicked off the overhead as well and eased open the office door.

  "Don't you have anything here?" Iskinder asked softly.

  "I share the space," Jerry said. "I told you, most of the things on the shelves aren't even mine. And — I'm trying to be respectable." Which was why he hadn't warded his own work, not that he'd expected to need that sort of protection. And that, of course, was when you generally needed it….

  The hallway was empty, dark at the far end where Abadie had absently switched off the lights as he went; the door that led to the gallery stairs was also dark. Jerry flicked off the nearest of the hall lights, cocked his head to listen. There were no sounds, just the heavy weight of the wards, someone sealing this space off from the world outside. They could be after anything, whoever they were; there were plenty of small and valuable objects in the storage room and workshops, things that were common enough that the Met didn't need to display them, but which would fetch a decent price on the antiquities market. And that meant these guys were true professionals, going for things that could profitably be re-sold, not the most intrinsically valuable objects —

  "There," Iskinder said, his voice barely a breath in Jerry's ear.

  Jerry heard it, too, the steady sound of feet on the tiled floor, not loud except by contrast to the quiet. He reached for his key ring, found the collections key and unlocked the door of the nearest storage room. "In here."

  Iskinder slipped past him, and Jerry pulled the door almost closed behind him. As long as the burglars didn't turn on the hall lights, the gap should be invisible. He could see movement now, a shadow that resolved to a man in a plain neat suit, fedora pushed onto the back of his head. He held a flashlight, its lens covered with a handkerchief to cut its light, and he seemed to be checking the names on the doors. Three more shadows moved behind him, more men in suits, and as the leader slowed, Jerry thought he caught the glimpse of a pistol in one of the followers' hands.

  Iskinder swore softly, and Jerry eased the door closed a little further. There was no way out of the collections room, and precious little cover behind and between the tall cases with their hundreds of velvet-lined drawers. At least this was the room where the least valuable Egyptian material was kept, probably the thieves wouldn't be coming here.

  But they were still coming, the man with the flashlight methodically checking the names and numbers on each of the doors. Which argued that they were looking for something in particular, Jerry thought. That could be either good or bad — and, yes, at least two of them were very definitely carrying pistols. He caught Iskinder's sleeve, pulled him close to whisper in his ear.

  "We need glamour — something to keep them away."

  Iskinder nodded. "But subtle. They know what they're doing."

  They certainly seemed to: the wards were solid, not Jerry's tradition, but something akin to it. He took a breath, centering himself, and made the Kabbalistic cross. "Ateh malkuth ve-gevurah ve-gedulah le-olahm." The familiar still certainty filled him, and he closed his eyes, breathing in the sense of the crowded room. It was all ordinary, everyday objects, nothing that belonged to kings and priests and princes; no gold nor silver nor precious stones, just faience and bone and brass, clay and wood and paint. Nothing of value, nothing that anyone could possibly be seeking, especially not in the dark with guns in hand…. He drew that everyday plainness around them like a cloak, weaving the ordinary to conceal them, dust and bone and dull daily use, the sound of stone on stone and hot stone beneath bare feet, insignificant, uninteresting, unremarkable….

  Iskinder breathed a curse, but Jerry finished tying off the glamour, made sure it was solid before he looked. He could see the thieves still through the gap in the door, and his eyebrows rose. They had stopped at the door of his office, the man with the fedora busy first with something that he kept hidden in the palm of his hand, one of the others holding the flashlight, and then with what looked like a set of lockpicks. The door gave way, and the man in the fedora stepped inside, followed by the one with the flashlight. The other two waited in the hall, their guns raised.

  "That's your office," Iskindir whispered. "What are they looking for?"

  Jerry shook his head. The most valuable things were Rosenthal's ushabtis, someone would probably
pay a decent price for a nice matched set like that, but there weren't many collectors who'd hire thieves to steal objects like that, not when there were plenty available on the legitimate market — nor were there many criminals who'd know enough to steal an ushabti rather than a gold necklace or a set of coins. There wasn't anything that would be useful to an occult practitioner, either — given the thieves' expertise with wards that had to be a possibility. He froze, the medallion suddenly heavy in his pocket. Surely that was impossible. If anyone had recognized what the medallion might be, all they had to do was make a private offer to Rosenthal. There was no need for this cloak and dagger play….

  The man in the fedora emerged from his office, holding something on a short length of chain, and Jerry felt the spark of connection leap to the medallion in his pocket. He took a quick step back, Iskinder's face changing as he, too, realized what had happened. They were both unarmed, against two men with guns — and I am not giving this up without a fight, Jerry thought. He dropped his cane, fumbling for his set of case keys, and unlocked the case that held faience objects. Second drawer down — yes, there they were, half a row of them, five faience amulets in the shape of the god Anubis. All Ptolemaic, most from around Alexandria, none of them special, but all of them sealed to the god, to the protector. He seized one, handed it to Iskinder, and took another for himself, wrapping his hand around the familiar shape. The god strode forth, jackal-headed, hands fisted at his sides, one leg advanced, battered blue-green pottery no longer than his thumb.

  "They must have put it into storage," a voice said, not loud, but not trying to hide, either. A shadow fell across the door.

  Jerry held up his amulet, uplifted ears and pointed muzzle, protector of the dead and of the kingdom. A thousand years of worship gathered within it, focused by the symbol. "You who are on the mountain," he said, "you who are ruler of the bows, defender of the kingdom —"

  The air shimmered between him and the door, and Iskinder lifted his amulet in turn, lending his strength and will. "Protect your own."

  The door swung open and the shape took form in the same instant, gleaming black, the canine head on broad shoulders, hands lifted to display staff and flail. The man in the fedora fell back, mouth opening, and the Anubis shape surged forward, flail lashing out to bring the fedoraed man to his knees. Someone screamed a curse, and the shape swung its staff back-handed, driving the gunmen back again.

  "Run!" That was the man with the flashlight, hauling the man in the fedora wobbling to his feet. "Run, damn it —"

  The gunmen were ahead of him, pelting back up the hall, and the Anubis-shape pursued them, laying about it with flail and staff. Somewhere in the distance an alarm was sounding, but Jerry ignored it, focusing the power that flowed through and from the amulets, driving the thieves before him through the darkened halls.

  And then he could no longer reach, the power fading. He released it, and caught at Iskinder's arm to steady himself. They clung together for a moment, and then Iskinder straightened, shaking his head. Jerry bent to pick up his cane. The alarm was still ringing, somewhere above him — somewhere in the galleries, only it wasn't the Museum alarm, sounded more like an alarm clock. It cut out abruptly, leaving a ringing silence. The thieves' wards were gone, shattered by Anubis's power.

  "What the devil?" Iskinder said.

  Jerry shook his head. He retrieved the amulets and laid them gently back in their place, pausing long enough to offer thanks before relocking the case. "I think we'd better go find out."

  He switched on the hall lights, and went back to check his office. The box that had held Rosenthal's various smaller pieces was open, and he closed it quickly, then locked the door behind him.

  "You're keeping it?" Iskinder asked.

  Jerry nodded. "At least until Monday. After this — I need to talk to Hutcheson, see what he can do about getting this for the Met collection. I wasn't planning on telling him just yet, but —" He broke off as the door to the gallery stairs opened and one of the guards looked in.

  "Dr. Ballard! Has anybody come this way?"

  Jerry shook his head. "Not that I've seen." Iskinder gave him a look at that, but it was simpler to lie than to explain, particularly when there were occult forces involved. "What's going on?"

  The guard relaxed. "Looks like nothing. Somebody left an alarm clock in Arms and Armor, scared the living daylights out of all of us. It doesn't look like anything's been touched, though, so — looks like maybe it was kids, some kind of prank. There were a crowd of them today."

  "It's the kind of thing some people think is funny," Jerry agreed, and saw Iskinder's mouth twitch.

  "Kids today," he murmured.

  "Yeah, it's not that funny," the guard said. "Sorry, Doc, I don't mean to take it out on you. Anyway, I've got to check the Fifth Avenue door."

  "We'll come with you, if you don't mind," Jerry said. "We were on our way out, and if you could let me out that side…." He looked down at his foot and the guard nodded, obviously not sorry for the company.

  "Sure thing."

  There was no sign of the thieves in the halls or side offices, and the staff door was, to all appearances, solidly locked. The guard let them out into the deepening dark, and they stood for a moment on the sidewalk, Jerry looking around carefully to be sure they weren't followed. There was no one in sight — and if he'd been chased by the shade of a long-vanished god, he wouldn't have stuck around either. He reached into his pocket, checking to be sure the medallion was still secure, and Iskinder shook his head.

  "Whoever they were, they were taking a risk."

  "They had it well planned," Jerry answered. "If we hadn't been there…." And why would anyone want to steal this particular medallion? Archeology could be a cut-throat business, but not usually literally so — and if someone wanted it as the key to the Soma, the sensible thing was to do what he'd planned, to bury it safely in a collection until an expedition could be arranged. "It doesn't make sense," he said.

  "No." Iskinder lifted his hand to signal a taxi, but the cab drove past without stopping. "What are you going to do?"

  "Talk to Hutcheson," Jerry said again. Another cab was cruising past, and he waved his cane. "And then I think I'm going to put some protection on it myself."

  "I'll help, if you'd like."

  "Thanks." The cab pulled into the curb, and Jerry limped toward it, Iskinder at his heels.

  "But first," Iskinder said. "First we should have dinner."

  "And a stiff drink," Jerry answered, and levered himself into the back seat. Maybe that would help him see what the thieves had been after.

  It had been hard to wait for Monday, particularly with the medallion a constant weight on mind and pocket. Jerry paid off his cab at the corner of Fifth and 83rd and limped hastily across the street toward the staff entrance. It was a clear, cold day, the sun not quite reaching the bottom of the city canyons where the air still tasted of damp and iron, and he was glad to emerge into the sun on the broad pavement in front of the Museum. He signed himself in at the staff entrance, commiserating with the guard about pranks and kids who thought they could get away with anything, and crabbed his way down the stairs to the office level. On a Monday, the halls were bustling; he exchanged greetings with a dozen people, scholars, guards, the department's typewriter girl and a spare young woman in a plain brown jumper who was someone's assistant, before he was able to let himself into his office.

  Nothing had been disturbed since Friday night — and nothing much had been disturbed then, just the box that held the smaller Rosenthal pieces. The thieves had definitely known what they were looking for, hadn't needed to search at all. And that was — still — worrying.

  He hung hat and topcoat on the battered tree, and pulled the medallion from his pocket, unwrapping it to reveal Ptolemy Auletes' heavy profile. No different from a hundred others, except for the images on the reverse, and after a moment's hesitation, he slipped it back into his pocket. Hutcheson was probably in his office by now, and there
was nothing to be gained now by delaying the conversation. He had wanted to keep it secret just a little longer, prove himself able again, but it was more important now that the medallion be protected.

  Hutcheson's office was larger than most of the others, but no less cluttered, and the secretary ensconced in the alcove outside his door made it seem even smaller.

  "Good morning, Miss Walters," Jerry said. "Is he in?"

  "I'm here, Ballard." Hutcheson didn't move from his desk, just beckoned. "Will it take long?"

  "I don't think so," Jerry answered, but he closed the door behind him.

  Hutcheson lifted an eyebrow. "Is there a problem with Rosenthal's collection? Someone whispered in my ear that it might not all be as advertised."

  "No, as far as I can tell, everything is genuine, and some of it's very nice," Jerry said. "And a few things are… interesting." He took the medallion out of his pocket and laid it on the desk.

  Hutcheson took it, examined it, and handed it back, too polite to shrug. "I don't see it."

  "Look at the reverse again," Jerry said.

  "The Wonders of Alexandria," Hutcheson said. "And?" He stopped abruptly. "Oh."

  Jerry nodded. "The Met needs to keep this. To bury it somewhere until an expedition can be funded — and I would really hope that I would be considered for it, Hutcheson."

  "You're not a field man," Hutcheson said. "Not any more." His fingers curved possessively over the blurred surfaces.

  "The dig would be in the city," Jerry said. "I'm doing fine here."

  "Alexandria is not New York."

  "Nor is it the Western Desert," Jerry said.

  "No." Hutcheson looked down at the medallion again. "It will take time to put something together, and —this is why you didn't come down to the Cape this weekend."

  Jerry nodded. "I didn't want to talk to Mockridge about Rosenthal's collection. I still don't."

  "No, indeed," Hutcheson said. "If they get even a hint of this — what is it you want me to do, Ballard?"