"Warded," Jerry said, softly, and Alma nodded, staring up at the angels. Her eyes flickered closed for an instant, and Iskinder knew she was feeling out the extent of the protection.
"It's part of the building," she said, after a moment. "And it's been here a long time. It's kind of faded."
It didn't feel like the power used against them at the Met, either, Iskinder thought, and looked at Jerry, who shrugged.
"Let's go in."
The lobby was as ordinary as the exterior, brown linoleum underfoot, a directory board with yellowed letters behind locked glass, two dimly lit corridors stretching into the back. The board said that Judson's office was on the second floor, and Jerry shook his head.
"I'd have expected Judson to have a nicer place, somehow, but —"
His voice trailed off as though he didn't want to mention the wards aloud, and Iskinder nodded. "I imagine it serves his purpose." He could feel the wards in the bones of the building, wavy and attenuated in places, though still present, but the sense of unease didn't lessen. "Let's go up."
There was no elevator, just the echoing stone stairs, lit by a leaf-drifted skylight seven stories above their heads. Judson's office was halfway down the right-hand corridor, the light warm behind the pebbled glass with Judson's name painted in black and gold above a small diamond shape that looked almost Masonic. Iskinder knocked, the sound loud in the heavy quiet, and the door swung open under his hand.
"Welcome. Enter and be welcome."
Iskinder stepped through the door, feeling a web of power part for him. Within, the lights seemed brighter, the colors stronger, and Iskinder couldn't help raising his eyebrows. Alma's breath caught, and Jerry lifted his head, the light glinting from his glasses. Iskinder caught a whiff of summer sweetness, flowers out of season, and then it was gone. The narrow lobby was empty except for a pair of armchairs arranged at opposite ends of an oriental carpet, very red against the worn wood floor. There were matching bookcases behind the chairs, their shelves filled with smaller artifacts. Interesting but not valuable, Iskinder noted, and the door to the inner room opened.
A stocky, square-jawed woman in an unflattering pageboy haircut stood there, looking stolidly from one to the other. "We were expecting Mr. Barstow," she said. It was not the voice that had invited them in. There as something odd about her, her heavy stance and the way she moved, her skin grey as skimmed milk against her sober tweeds.
"But Ras Iskinder and his friends are very welcome, Miss Clay."
That was the man who had spoken — Judson, presumably, small and faintly disheveled despite his nice suit, a yarmulke set on his graying hair. He held out his hand.
"I'm Saul Judson, Ras Iskinder."
Iskinder took his hand, aware of the faint shock, like a circuit closing, as they touched, and Judson nodded.
"That will be all, Miss Clay. Won't you come in, gentlemen, ma'am—" His expression was curious, and Iskinder answered the unspoken question.
"Mrs. Segura, Dr. Ballard. They're — colleagues — of mine."
"Very wise," Judson said. He ushered them into a pleasant office lined with more bookcases, its comfort marred only by the lack of windows. Easier to protect, Iskinder thought, from both ordinary and esoteric threats.
Judson saw them seated, then collected an ordinary-looking cardboard box from one of the shelves. The string that held it closed was sealed with a blob of way, and Iskinder, watching closely, wasn't surprised to see Judson's lips move silently before he broke the seal.
"If you wouldn't mind, Ras Iskinder, I'd like you to confirm that these are the items you intended to purchase."
"Of course," Iskinder said. "Dr. Ballard, if you would?"
Jerry came forward eagerly, digging his penknife from his pocket. Iskinder used it to cut the string, then lifted the lid and pulled away the cotton wool that swaddled the artifacts. Yes, there was the African girl — a lovely piece, and one the Emperor would appreciate — the blue glass vial and the Pharos medallion, and finally the Ptolemy medallion, wrapped in an extra twist of something that proved to be silk. He looked up to see that Judson was watching him carefully as well.
"That seemed to want extra protection," he said.
"Yes," Iskinder said, cautiously, and Judson nodded.
"It's also the prize everyone was after."
"Yes," Iskinder said again.
Jerry took the medallion from him, long fingers caressing the surface, then turned his attention to the other objects. "All as they should be," he said, to Iskinder, and began packing everything neatly away.
"It's not such a valuable piece as all that," Judson observed. "In excellent condition, but hardly uncommon. I offered Mr. Pelley a much rarer example at the same price, but he refused. This one or nothing, he said."
Iskinder hesitated, not sure what to say, and Jerry looked up from his packing.
"We can't tell you," he said. "I'm sorry."
"You're the one who protected it," Judson said, and Jerry nodded, though Iskinder could see him brace himself.
"Yeah, that was me."
Judson seemed to relax a little. "You're aware, I think, that this isn't over."
"I feared as much," Iskinder said.
"You're safe here," Judson said. "Here in my office, I mean. The protections here are recent, and they will hold."
"And you have Miss Clay," Jerry said.
Judson nodded. "That, too."
Alma stirred. "Maybe we should leave the things with Mr. Judson —"
"But I don't want them, dear lady," Judson said. "I have wars enough of my own, thank you. I cannot fight yours as well."
A chill ran down Iskinder's spine, and Jerry's mouth tightened, but it was Alma who spoke first.
"Very well, then. It's our responsibility."
Iskinder's skin prickled at that, as though more had been listening than had been intended. If Alma felt it, though, she went on without pause.
"You say we're safe here, but not outside the office?"
"I'm afraid not," Judson answered. He gave an apologetic shrug. "There are wards, but — I've had to rent to all sorts of people these last two years, and I no longer have access to every part of the building. Nor do I have the support that I used to."
"You won't stop us if we have to fight," Alma said.
Judson shook his head. "Nor will anything of mine oppose you in any way."
"Thank you," Alma said, sounding perfectly serene. She had stepped into Gil's shoes, Iskinder realized with a shock, though he couldn't think which of the others he would have chosen to be Magister in her place. She lifted her head then, as though listening for something beyond the range of Iskinder's hearing. "And I think we should be going now."
He felt it then, a dull, distant thud as though a door had closed, the same heaviness he'd felt in the museum.
"They're past the wards," Jerry said.
"Come on," Iskinder said, and opened the office door. The feeling was stronger in the little lobby, and Miss Clay was waiting by the main door, her head cocked slightly to one side as though she, too, were listening.
"Thank you, Miss Clay," Judson said. "They'll just be going now."
Miss Clay gave him a disapproving look, but unfastened the locks and opened the door just enough for them to file out.
"God go with you," Judson said, and added something else in what sounded like Hebrew.
Jerry looked over his shoulder, the box tucked tightly beneath his arm and under his jacket, and answered in the same language. Judson bowed, and closed the door behind them.
The hall seemed suddenly dark, the air close and stale. It was hard to think, hard to move, and Iskinder shook his head hard, trying to drive back the sudden exhaustion that threatened to overcome him.
"They've put the building to sleep," he said, and only then realized he'd spoken aloud.
Jerry crossed himself, centering, then sketched the same cross over both of them. Alma nodded her thanks, and Iskinder straightened, the worst of the dizziness leaving
him. The lights flickered and dimmed, fading until the filament glowed orange without giving light. Even the skylight seemed blackened, and the stairs led down into unnaturally deep shadow. He was abruptly certain he did not want to face whatever it hid.
"Is there another way out beside the main stairs?"
"Fire escape?" Alma said doubtfully, and Jerry looked over his shoulder.
"Maybe? We'll have to go through someone's office."
Iskinder was already trying the first door he found. It was locked, and so was the second; the third door gave onto a broom closet and the fourth was the men's room. He checked anyway, but the windows were wired shut, no sign of a fire escape. "Back the other way."
That meant passing the stairs, and he was suddenly unwilling. There was something down there, something dark and shapeless, stealthy as a crocodile, and he saw the same reluctance on Jerry's face. Alma felt it, too, and he saw a shiver run through her.
"There's no other way," she said. "Together, now. On three."
On impulse, Iskinder reached out to take her hand, and Jerry caught his free hand in turn.
"One," Alma said, and faltered. "No. We have to. One, two, three."
She stepped forward briskly, pulling them with her. Iskinder felt the darkness tug at their heels, risked a look over the rail to see something shapeless and inexorable working its way up the stairs. Then they were past, and he released Jerry's hand to try the nearest doorknob. It opened to his touch, and they piled into the open space, Iskinder locking the door again behind them. He could just read the letters painted in reverse on the pebbled glass: Ronald Lake, Rare Coins.
For a moment, he thought the room was empty, but then he saw the young woman slumped over her typewriter, her head pillowed on her folded arms. She seemed to be the only staff member, though an older man — Lake himself, presumably — was asleep in his chair in the inner office, his toupee pushed slightly askew. Behind him, the door of his safe stood open, and Iskinder was tempted to close it, just in case Pelley's men had more thefts in mind.
"Through here," Jerry said, and Iskinder shook himself back to the moment.
The fire escape opened off the window of the room Lake used as a storeroom, though the secretary had let her notebooks and ledgers pile up on the table in front of it. Jerry grimaced, pushing them aside, then stood for a moment to study the window. It looked odd, as though the wires sandwiched between the panes of glass were thicker than was proper, and Iskinder realized he was seeing an effect of the spell.
"If we just break it," Alma said, thoughtfully.
Jerry nodded, and handed her the box. "We break the spell, possibly wake everyone up, and we have to explain what we're doing here trying to get out the fire escape. I'd rather try something more subtle."
"Go ahead," Alma answered.
Iskinder left them to it, and went back to the main door. He eased it open, peering down the hall to see the darkness thick at the top of the stairs. Possibly something moved at its base, and he closed the door again, snapping all three locks and throwing the bolt for good measure.
"It's at the stairs," he said quietly, and Alma nodded.
"Almost there," Jerry muttered. "Almost." He closed his eyes. "Oh you who are the Light and the Sons of Light, You who parted the waters and led Moses into safety, grant me the power to part these strands of darkness and bring us safe into the light." He opened his eyes, and touched a corner of the grid. "Aleph." He touched another, and another, tracing the shape of a six-pointed star. "Beth, gimel, daleth, he, waw."
For an instant, a trail of light hung in the air, and then the paint that had sealed the window shattered, covering them with pale green flakes. Jerry pulled the window the rest of the way open, and held out his hand to Alma. "After you."
"Iskinder first," Alma said, and Iskinder hurried to obey. He eased himself out onto the platform, found the brake that held the chain, and lowered the stairs to the ground, wincing at the noise. He held out his hand to Alma, who clambered out easily, and then they both helped Jerry drag himself awkwardly through the window frame. At least it was stairs and not a ladder, Iskinder thought, and closed the window behind him.
"This way," Alma said, and started down the stairs. Iskinder followed, knowing Jerry wouldn't want help but braced to catch him anyway, and saw Alma stiffen as she reached the ground ahead of him. "Damn."
"What?"
"There's a man," she said.
"Pelley's?" Iskinder began, and saw the man skid to a stop at the head of the alley. He reached into his pocket, but instead of a gun he pulled out something like a short wand.
"Oh, no, you don't," Alma said, and put her hands out to her side, palms extended toward the earth. Iskinder felt the asphalt shudder and heave, and a wave of earth knocked the man off his feet. Iskinder lunged for the wand before the man could recover, grabbed it up and then kicked him in the groin.
"Nice," Jerry said, breathing hard, and Iskinder looked at both of them.
"We should move on —"
"Not before we break this," Alma said. She looked up at the building, and Jerry took her hand.
"Unclean thing that cannot stand the light of day, the sun is risen. Begone!"
There was a snap, a flat crack of light like a flashbulb going off behind every window of the building, and the sense of pressure was abruptly gone. On the ground, Pelley's man groaned as though it had hurt him more than the kick, and Iskinder leaned over him.
"Do not meddle in my business again," he said, and the man curled protectively in on himself as though afraid of another blow.
"Let's go," Jerry said, and this time Alma let them be drawn away.
Chapter Eleven
New York
December 18, 1932
Alma studied the weather bulletins stacked on the clipboard, one eye on the fuel truck just pulling away from the Dude. Full tanks, topped up tight: that gave her the option of taking a more northerly route, which would hopefully let them skirt the edge of the weather that was building to the west. Right now, Salt Lake City was reporting dropping pressure, and the forecast was for snow and ice to sweep across the mountains and then bring cold rain to Missouri and Tennessee before petering out in Georgia. The Weather Service wasn't making any promises about where the northern edge of the storms would fall, but it seemed as though there was a decent chance of staying north of the worst of it if she went via Chicago. There were plenty of good fields in the area, but Mitch always recommended Harlem Airport in Oak Lawn. Of course, the conservative choice would be to stay in the city until the weather cleared, but after their experience the day before, she didn't want to take the risk. Pelley had made it clear he was determined to get the medallion, and she didn't want to offer him another chance. Even if she had to put down somewhere in the Midwest, that was safer than staying here. She unclipped the most recent weather report and put it in her pocket, then went back into the terminal building.
"Mrs. Segura." That was Jennings, the day manager, bustling out from behind his counter. "Was everything all right?"
"Fine, thanks." Alma reached for her purse. "Can I get you to wire Harlem Airport for me? That's the other Harlem, outside Chicago."
Jennings smiled at the joke. "Of course, Mrs. Segura. Do you want me to reserve space for you there?"
"Please. And you can give me my bill as well."
"Of course," Jennings said again, and fished beneath the counter. He came up with several sheets of grubby paper, which he copied quickly onto a sheet printed with the field's name and address. Alma, who was used to being given ragged sheets torn off the backs of envelopes and scribbled on the backs of grocery lists, bit her lip to keep from giggling. She filled out her check while Jennings went off to send her telegram, and handed it across when he returned.
"Thank you so much, Mrs. Segura. Harlem says they'll be expecting you, and will hold hangar space."
"Excellent," Alma said. "I appreciate it."
"Our pleasure," Jennings answered. "And I hope you'll stay with us t
he next time you're in the city…"
Jerry and Tesla were sitting together in the main waiting room, Tesla with his hands folded on the handle of a slender walking stick. Though she had told them to leave their luggage with the porter, and had seen two suitcases stowed in the baggage compartment with her own, she was somehow unsurprised to see a large satchel at Tesla's feet. Jerry had left the medallion with Iskinder, who had promised to make a noise about taking the medallion back to Ethiopia with him along with the other artifacts. Though she hated to leave Iskinder to face the music, no matter how careful he promised he would be.
"Gentlemen," she said, and they both rose at her approach. "Are you ready? We've been assigned quarter past ten for our take-off slot."
Jerry reached automatically for his watch, and she saw him relax as he realized they had more than half an hour to be ready. Tesla smiled pleasantly. "Can we say that this is a good day for flying, Mrs. Segura? I'm quite excited about this adventure."
"Today should be nice," Alma answered. "We are flying into some weather tomorrow, but I'm hoping to stay north of it. We'll put down outside Chicago for the night."
Jerry nodded, and stooped to pick up Tesla's bag.
"No, no, Dr. Ballard," Tesla began, and Jerry said, "No, I insist."
His eyebrows rose then, and Alma cocked her head in question.
"This is fairly weighty," he said, cautiously.
"Just a few things I thought I might need," Tesla said. "Things you won't find in the average machine shop — though I suspect yours is better prepared than most, Mrs. Segura."
Alma reached for the bag, hefted it with the ease of long practice. It probably weighed thirty pounds, but Tesla's suitcase had weighed only fourteen when she supervised the loading. "That should be fine," she said, and Jerry retrieved it. "We'll just make sure it's tucked snugly so it doesn't shift."
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 94