by Gordon Ryan
“You’re getting close,” Peter said. “Replicas aren’t good enough, and neither are replacements. We’ve got to preserve the context, too.”
“It’s like those lost Greek manuscripts,” Lars said, “you know, that we’ve reconstructed based solely on how they were quoted in other, surviving texts. They don’t survive in original translation, but we still have them.”
“I like that analogy, very good,” Peter said. “I’m going to steal it next time I have to explain to someone.”
“Fine, you’re all very clever,” Tess said, “Problem is, I don’t believe any of it.”
A half smile crossed Peter’s face. “Is that because you don’t want to believe, because you’re convinced I’m up to no good?”
“Your best friend is Alexander Borisenko. That guy is the world’s biggest smuggler of artifacts.”
“You’re wrong.”
Tess snorted. “I’ve been on his trail for months. What about the gold dagger, the Akkadian King?”
“He bought them to keep them out of the hands of a private collector in Saudi Arabia. He was planning all along to return the artifacts to Baghdad when he thought they would be safe. Borisenko is just like you, only he’s better at it. And he’s got money to buy his artifacts.”
Tess looked to Dmitri for help. “You know Borisenko, he’s a bastard. A corrupt, greedy bastard. He looted Russia of its oil and now he’s looting the world of its heritage. Tell Peter he’s wrong.”
“I think I understand,” Dmitri said. “This castle, and the war, it’s not a game, it’s training. For after.”
“Yes, exactly.” Peter turned back toward the fireplace.
The pieces came together in Tess’s mind. “You’re counting on a collapse, aren’t you? You think the world as we know it is going to come to an end. Do you think it’s oil that’s going to kill it? We run out and that’s it?”
“Maybe, I’d say ten, fifteen percent chance. Odds are good we’ll find new supplies or that we’ll make a relatively smooth transition to some other power source.”
“But that’s not much of a chance,” she said.
“I talked to some disease guy after the SARS scare and he thinks that there’s a one to two percent chance of a super plague—Black Death style—in any given decade,” Peter said.
“That’s just speculation,” Tess said. “And even over a century, that doesn’t add up to a huge threat.”
“Also, I’d argue that just because we haven’t seen a nuclear war, doesn’t mean that it won’t happen. More countries have nuclear weapons all the time.” Peter rubbed at his chin. “So I’d throw that in there, too. Then you’ve got the big natural disasters. The potential of a collapse due to climate change, which could be global warming-induced famine, or maybe a new ice age. Who knows? And what about those super volcanoes that lurk around the world, or even an asteroid strike.”
“The more arguments you give, the less convincing it sounds,” Tess said. “I could be hit by lightning next time I step outside, you can’t worry about that sort of thing.”
“I see what Peter means,” Dmitri said. “I mean, I don’t know if the world is going to come to an end, but I see his point. It’s like a game of roulette. You put a bet on one number, you’ll probably lose. You put down ten bets and you spin the wheel again and again, sooner or later you’ll get a payoff.”
“Only the payoff isn’t five to one or ten to one,” Peter said. “I’ve seen too much of the world’s financial system. It looks strong from a distance, you get close, you see its flaws. You hit it hard enough and it’s going to collapse, and you won’t rebuild it.”
“Even the Great Depression came to an end, eventually.”
“This isn’t the 1930s,” Peter said. “People can’t live on the food they grow on their own farms. And people can’t haul goods to market by horse-drawn cart. The economic system collapses and what’s going to happen? Mass starvation, wars, a civilization that devours itself.”
“Okay,” Tess said. “Playing along here, just for fun. How does the castle play into that? Are you saying we’re going to collapse so far we’ll go back to fighting our wars with crossbows and trebuchets? I don’t believe it. People could be living in mud huts, burning firewood for fuel and they’ll still have their guns. There’s so many weapons, ammunition, and explosives in this world that it won’t run out for generations. And the last thing people stop making will be new ammo.”
“I don’t know what the world is going to look like a hundred years from now, nobody does. We picked castles and medieval warfare because so many of us are medievalists. Guys like Niels, Henri, and Borisenko, and it’s not like we could fight our battles with artillery and F-16s.
“What I’m about,” Peter continued, “is building a team of people who have the money, the skills, and the connections to hold it together after the collapse.”
“And that’s why you brought Nick, too.” Tess thought about how Peter’s family had fled Algeria during the civil war.
“Nick might survive to see the end of the century. Or he might die in some upheaval twenty years from now. I need to make sure that doesn’t happen. He has to learn.”
She almost bought it, except for the same gleam in his eyes that she’d seen when he was talking about his ziggurat. “Admit it Peter, this isn’t about training for the end of the world. You think this will be cool, like those big battles you read about in my last book. You’ve got a big vault filled with treasure and you dressed all your friends in armor because it’s fun.”
Peter gave a smile so slight the others might have missed it, the way the firelight shadowed his face. He turned to Dmitri and Lars. “Now, are you in?”
“Just to be clear,” Dmitri said. “What do you mean by in?”
“You’ll work for me. Money, whatever, isn’t an issue. You can buy your artifacts, we’ll reproduce them, then turn them over to museums. But you need to get into those same museums to get access to their best goods. A few bribes of the real stuff will help.”
It most certainly would. People didn’t work at the museums for the money. They would salivate over the antiquities Peter’s money could provide.
“And then what?” Tess asked. “Are you going to throw us out when we’re done? Isn’t that your style?”
It took Peter several seconds to smooth away the frown. “I’m not perfect, Tess, but I’m in this for the long haul.”
“I might have heard that before.”
“I’m in,” Lars said. “You and Tess can work out your own issues.”
Tess turned to him. “You’re going to quit your career, just like that?”
“It’s not a career, it’s a job.” Lars got up from the chair to physically join Peter by the fire and the way he carried himself told Tess that he was not just speaking out of excitement. “I took it because it gets me closest to the way things used to be. This thing, this is better.”
“The Viking warrior awakes. Valhalla, throw open your doors.”
“That’s the problem, I’m not a Viking. I’m more like that Greek manuscript, actually. My life is folded in bits and pieces into this modern world, where it doesn’t belong. I need a way to pull it out, put it together in one place.”
“What a crock of shit,” Tess said. She looked back to Peter. “How many others know about this? Everyone else in this war?”
“Most of the hired swords don’t know, except for you and Niels, Henri, a few others. Not that you’re hired swords, I mean,” he added quickly. “What I mean is that the rich guys know, the paid guys mostly don’t.”
“So Borisenko knows.”
“Right, Borisenko, Daria LeFevre, Chang—”
“Chang? That’s the Chinese guy who hangs out with your Arab friend?”
“From Singapore, but yeah. The ‘Arab friend’ is Mahmoud. He knows, too. He’s Algerian, but has lived in the Gulf since before the First Gulf War. Couple of Americans, McIves and Santini. Nigel Frank, from England.”
“I remember
Frank,” she said. “Came to the house once, right? Got rich by shuffling imaginary money from one bank computer to another and taking his cut, right?”
“Something like that,” Peter said.
“I don’t know those other two guys.”
“You met McIves at La Baux, he was the guy with your book and the gold dagger. Old-time Texas oil guy. Santini’s a hedge fund manager. Thick New Jersey accent.”
“Okay, I think I remember him. He’s with Borisenko’s army, right, because I haven’t seen him.”
“That’s right, so are you in?”
“I am,” Dmitri said.
Tess turned in surprise. “You, too?”
Dmitri hated Borisenko. Didn’t matter if Peter was right about the man, it wouldn’t change the way he’d acquired his wealth. Or the way he’d betrayed the people and friendships of his own town, one of whom was Dmitri.
“Well, Tess?” Peter asked.
“Think of what we could do,” Lars said. “Break the back of the smuggling rings.”
“Hardly,” Tess said. “We start buying smuggled goods and we’ll drive up the market. Like those people who free slaves in the Sudan. Good idea, nasty side-effects.”
“So get there first,” Peter said. “Sniff out the illegal digs. Put a legit team in place. Give the local government money to build a new wing on their museum to house it all.”
“Come on, Tess,” Lars said. “This is a huge opportunity, think about it.”
Tess, truly, felt torn. She didn’t believe this fantasy of Peter’s. It was the ziggurat all over again. So he’d managed to convince a few others to go along. That just made his fantasy more compelling, and more dangerous at the same time. She couldn’t get swept up in it. Except for one thing.
“Fine, I’m in. But with one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I want Nick.”
Peter looked confused. “Nick?”
“Yes.” She got down from the chair and approached until she encroached on his space. He leaned back.
“That’s my deal. I’ll work for you, Peter, but I want joint custody. And I want it in writing. Signed in front of lawyers.”
“Wait, you want me to give up my son? That’s your condition? You’re out of your mind.”
Dmitri and Lars looked like they wanted to melt away. Tess didn’t care. Her emotions were crackled on the surface.
“He’s my son too,” she said. “Yes, he is. I don’t care if I didn’t give birth to him, but his mother died. And you put us together. You made that boy love me when he didn’t know any better. Don’t you see that? And you made me love him. Three years. Three and a half years. I came for you, I stayed for Nick. I don’t care what the law says, or if anyone else in the world sees it but me and that boy.”
He couldn’t look her in the eyes at first, but she didn’t draw back. When he looked up, she could see doubt and hesitation. “I look at that boy and he’s so beautiful,” Peter said. “A bit of my chin, my hair. But mostly, I see his mother. Her eyes, especially. And sometimes I think, I wonder. What would our child look like, Tess? Would he have your eyes?”
A lump in her throat. “Why don’t you just stick a knife in me, Peter?”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just, you know, this is so important. I didn’t have time for us. I still don’t have time. I made a mistake, maybe, I don’t know.”
“Let me help. With Nick, I’ve got time for him. I’ll make time.”
He nodded. “Yes, okay. Yes.”
Tess stepped back and made her voice certain. “Fine, then I’m in. I’m in all the way.”
She drew back her cloak and turned on her heel, then strode toward the far doors. She moved with a confidence, almost to the point of arrogance. But inside, she was a turmoil of emotions.
Chapter Twenty-three:
Niels Grunberg was by himself in the cold and dark when the murderers came into camp. He had good eyesight, and there was a full moon and he crept around the edge of the castle with no other light.
Since the failed attack of that afternoon, Tess had doubled the number of guards on the walls and at the gatehouse. Smoke heaved into the sky over the blacksmith shop and men worked in a frenzy to shore up the portcullis. Hoardings extended from the walls all around the gatehouse and fires burned in braziers atop the wall.
Niels would not mount another direct assault. Not yet. The larger trebuchet would be finished tomorrow and he’d set that to attack the walls, soften the enemy defenses. It would be three more days, minimum, before he’d mount another full-scale assault.
He guessed that Tess’s sluggish response was intentional. From Niels’s vantage, it looked as though he’d been two, maybe three blows from smashing the portcullis, then a few minutes to splinter the inner gate. At worst, he would have taken the outer curtain, the bailey, and the manor house and other buildings. Driven Peter and Tess into the keep.
More likely, he’d not been as close as it had appeared. Tess was feeling him out. Now she had his order of battle—or thought she did—and could plan accordingly. Well, he had a few surprises in store.
The watchman on this side of the castle approached with his pole and lamp. Niels squatted behind a granite outcrop, then peered over the top. The watchman braced the lamp against a merlon and swung the lamp from side to side to illuminate the ground below the walls. He leaned to inspect the various lumps and shadows. Finally, the watchman hefted the pole over his shoulder and continued. Niels had watched for the last hour and knew that his return would be random, somewhere between three and ten minutes from now.
He stepped around the rock and ran at a crouch toward the castle. There were two places to find the blocked-up entrance, he guessed. Here, on the southwest side, or on the far northeast corner.
Niels reached the curtain wall. He felt the stones, smoothed by a hundred years of exposure. His fingers traced joints. He needed something that felt different. Rough. Or better, poured stone stamped to appear like cut stone. Some place where workers had put in a wall to close the opening to the garage. The wall would look solid, but would not be as strong as the original.
A muffled cheer came from inside the castle. Pine-scented smoke filled the air. They were having some kind of feast or celebration. He could hear loud voices from here. He was suddenly aware of their own cold, rough encampment, with tents that couldn’t keep out drafts. Inside, more food, more fire, more comfort of every kind. That was probably the point of all that noise. To remind Lord Borisenko’s men of their miserable condition.
Something moved to the forest at his back. It startled him from his thoughts. He turned to see four shadows moving from tree to tree. Deer. He’d set someone to follow their trail. They could use more venison.
The first deer ducked into the shadows of the granite outcrop that had just sheltered Niels. His scent would still be strong there. The other three moved into the same space. They must be right on top of each other. He frowned.
The first started forward, then shrank back into the protection of the rock. It was enough to glimpse a flash of steel in the moonlight. Niels drew his breath. A raiding party. Four men, dropped perhaps by ladder from the castle, sent to attack his camp, catch them asleep. Niels had his own guards, of course, but would they be ready? And what if Tess sent more men from the other side?
A light swung out from the wall. It couldn’t have been two minutes, but the night watchman had returned. Niels did not move against the wall. The light rotated from side to side. The watchman continued his paces.
The men behind the rock slipped away. There was no confusing them for deer now. They moved with drawn swords and soon disappeared into the woods on the far side of Lord Borisenko’s camp.
What the hell? The four men had also hidden from the watchman’s lamp. Why? Were they Borisenko’s men, then, sent to find him? No, they’d come from the woods. It was the best way to approach his camp by stealth, without the need to cross either the road or the meadow. They had to be enemies.
>
Niels left the castle walls to follow the men. He drew his sword.
He caught up at the last break of trees before the camp. Niels stopped about twenty feet back. The men stood behind trees. The leader made hand signals to the other three. Niels had a hard time seeing any of them in the darkness. But he stood even further from the campfire light that came through the trees; unless he stumbled or snapped a branch they could not see him. He crept closer.
He could shout an alarm, but he wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just a reconnaissance mission. If so, let them spy; he could change the configuration of his camp the next day. But in turn, he could follow them back to the castle, to see how they’d come out. It hadn’t been through the gates; he had two men watching the gates at all times.
Niels’s own watchman patrolled the northern edge of the camp. He blocked the light from the campfire, hesitated, then continued in a counterclockwise motion. Three of the four enemies sprang into the clearing.
The first man clamped his hand over the watchman’s mouth. He thrust his sword into the man’s back in a violent gesture. The man groaned and slipped to the ground. The three continued into the camp.
Niels stepped after them. His man lay sprawled in front of the campfire and this distracted him from his first thought, which was to look for the fourth attacker. The watchman looked really hurt. That thrust had been overly aggressive.
He turned the man over, who twitched and groaned. His paint pack gushed. His face was white, in shock. Bloody foam flecked at his mouth. Niels looked down with shock. It was not red paint on his hands. The man’s named was Chris Stewart. An American with a wife and two daughters, and an Iraq war vet.
Something jabbed Niels in the back. “Don’t cry out,” a voice said. “Or move. You’ll be next.”
#
Alexander Borisenko woke to find that Yekatarina had gone out. He was always conscious of her moving in the night, whether she couldn’t sleep, was fighting a restless dream, or, like now, had gone outside to pee.
The excitement of the day’s attack had kept him awake for a good hour after bed, and now he would be awake until Yekatarina returned. So close. Just a few more blows and the portcullis would have collapsed. Borisenko had not wanted to abandon the attack. They could have pulled back the shed and put the fire out, returned for the attack.