Rings of the Inconquo Trilogy

by A. L. Knorr

  Yasmine led me in and pointed to laminated placards affixed to the shelves. Each placard was the size of a postcard and bore dates in bold black type.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I stepped into the room, noticing the subtle change in temperature. “Are these rooms climate controlled?”

  Yasmine walked a few steps ahead of me, checking placards as she went. She didn’t bother to look back or pause as she answered. “These records date back to the mid-19th century. They are as vital to our history as anything found in a museum and so require some extra care.”

  I let my new sense play over the documents in the bins. With a little concentration, I could feel the staples and paperclips, each giving a little chime as I walked past.

  “Here they are,” Yasmine called, already in the process of dragging a bin off its shelf. She set the bin down and produced a pair of gloves. She drew out the first sheaf of documents from a thin plastic sleeve, and carefully parted a few leaves of the yellowed stationery.

  “1920s,” Yasmine murmured as though not wanting to disturb sleeping paper.

  I found myself whispering, probably because she was doing it too, which I know sounds stupid. But it was contagious, especially as we were getting closer to discovering the truth.

  “I assume 1920s, but the only date I’m sure about is 1918. He and Professor Weston, an Egyptologist, did some work together.”

  Yasmine gave me a wilting look. “That would have been helpful at the outset.”

  She replaced the documents and picked her way through the bin before coming up with a thin collection of papers. She flicked through several sheets — a collection of blunt typed text festooned with curls of handwritten script.

  I hoped her intense glare indicated interest rather than frustration, but had to wait for a small eternity before she finally came up for air. She shook her head, and my heart dropped.

  “Poor man,” she intoned, her eyes bouncing back and forth over the documents. “I’m not sure you picked the right subject for your paper.”

  Her sad exclamation put my stomach in a knot and sparked an urge to shake the answers out of her. “Please,” I said with forced calm. “Tell me everything.”

  “That’s just it.” A flutter of irritation plumed as she ran a finger across an entry. “There is not that much here. Other than his association with Professor Weston, there isn’t much to distinguish Professor Lowe.”

  Yasmine shook her head again, but eventually she began to read.

  “Lowe, James Titus. Born 1866 in Bath, England. Came to the university at 17, studied philology and archaeology, specialising in Near Eastern cultures during the Bronze Age. Eventually, he became a fellow here and worked with the museum before becoming a lecturer and a full member of the faculty.” She glanced up at me and back down at the page. “Looks as though the only thing of note he did was attend an excavation at the request of Professor Weston, where he identified some artifacts as being of Hittite provender, despite being located in Egypt. It was a minor discovery in 1918, but the First World War had just ended, and so archaeological news must have been scarce. Weston would go on to be one of those excavating the Valley of Kings in 1922, but for Lowe, that was it.”

  Here she looked up and gave me a quizzical look.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing your paper on Professor Weston? He seems a far more interesting subject. And shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

  In all the anxiety of finding the truth, I’d forgotten the number one rule of archaeology and scientific study in general: record everything.

  “Please continue,” I said after producing a pen and paper from my bag, both looking a little worse for wear after their recent abuses.

  Yasmine gave another sigh, scanned a few lines and then began again.

  “There’s not much left, and none of it is good. After working with Weston in 1918 and completing an excavation in Palestine that — as far as it reads — produced no artifacts or discoveries of note, he lectured for two more years, with a note here saying ‘sporadically.’ By 1921, his evaluation of the work with Weston came under scrutiny and was eventually overturned, with several peers saying they were clearly Sumerian in origin and that Lowe’s work was — in a word — ‘shoddy.’ There’s no record of him making a defence, but it didn’t matter, because at the turn of the year, 1922, he was found dead of an apparent heart attack outside his rooms at the university.”

  My vision blurred at the edges, and I put a hand on the nearest shelving unit to steady myself. I took a deep breath, willing myself not to faint. Yasmine didn’t seem to notice my distress, thankfully.

  “His services were paid for out of his modest estate with orders for cremation. Doesn’t say what was done with the ashes, but I’m not surprised. Considering his relative disgrace, I’m surprised they kept this much. He wouldn’t be the first scandal to be willingly forgotten.”

  Dead in 1922 from a heart attack. Cremated. All the moisture had vanished from my mouth. “Is there anything there about family? Children or a wife?” I rasped.

  She shook her head. “No, it seemed Lowe died as unlucky in that regard as he did in his profession. Probably died of shame, the poor man. No one emerged to claim his estate.” She shook her head with pity. “It’s a true testament of loneliness when people don’t even notice you enough to try and claim what you left behind. That’s just a record keeper’s editorial, mind you. Anyway, what was left was used to refurbish the faculty water closets in his old building. There’s a rather rude handwritten note that says ‘Lowe’s Loos’ in the margins, but I don’t suppose that would be an honorific most would appreciate.”

  Dead, no family and with only a lavatory left behind.

  It would have been funny if I hadn’t actually met the man only days ago. Both our careers had followed a path to the toilet, but I’d gotten there much faster.

  Hittite, though … that couldn’t be anything but intentional, especially with what I’d found within some Hittite pottery shards.

  “Thank you.” I slid my pen and paper back into my bag. “I appreciate you taking the time to help me like this.”

  Yasmine’s head was still wagging as she put everything back into its rightful place.

  “Well, it was diverting, at least. I’m sure you know what you are on about, but I’m telling you that Weston sounds a good deal more interesting than Lowe. Are you sure you’re researching the right person?”

  I recalled the tall, unsure man standing with me in Collections and how I’d been so scared he was a criminal or deviant. It was clear I should have been scared for an entirely different reason, even an impossible one.

  Lowe was a ghost.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, demurely. “He’s the right man.”

  12

  Sneaking back into the museum offices that afternoon was not nearly as clandestine as I first imagined.

  Coming in the rear entrance, I was immediately spotted by Eddy, who looked half-asleep at his desk. Apparently, news of my scandal hadn’t reached the porter, because he chatted about the most recent football matches — as usual — before waving me on.

  That hurdle cleared, I headed down to Collections, hoping that the rubbish bins remained as badly neglected as they always were.

  Collections was nearly abandoned. A single intern sat obediently at his workstation as I crept past, realising mid-creep such stealth wasn’t necessary. The thumping beat of his hip-hop music could be heard through his earbuds, and he seemed far more interested in his phone than in any of the untouched boxes on the trolleys.

  Where was Shelton when you actually needed him?

  I swallowed a disgusted snort and made it to my station in short order. True to form, the rubbish bin sat untouched. Sitting on top was what I’d come for.

  The bold type declaring the Grand Opening of the British Museum Station stared back at me as I grabbed the map and pocketed it. I wondered just how mad I had to be to consider this a serious option.

  I should have gone to the nearest
police station. Reported the attack, surrendered the rings and seen what kind of recovery could be made of my academic future. Archaeology might be out of the question, but maybe I could transfer to another department. I’d gotten high marks in the sciences, so why not examine my options on that score? Why couldn’t I just go back to worrying about school and getting a good job?

  I considered it as I slipped back into the elevator, but as the metal box enclosed me along with the humming of half a dozen metals and alloys, I knew the answer. I curled my fingers into a fist, feeling the rings.

  You’re not that girl anymore.

  I stood in the elevator thinking of the million ways that this could all go bad and decided there was something I needed to do. It was probably mad, but that was the new norm. I pressed the button for Cataloguing. I didn’t want to leave things as they were with Meredith. She was the closest thing I had to a real friend here, and I hated the idea of her thinking so little of me. I needed to talk to her. If nothing else, to say goodbye.

  The doors opened as I slipped the rings off, figuring the conversation might go better if I wasn’t still wearing them.

  The call of the metals around me became more strident but less distinct. I’d been wearing the rings so long it took me off guard. I paused in the hallway to acclimatise to the burst of mental noise.

  Peeking through the observation window to Lab D, I saw only the two knobheads, arguing.

  “Bollocks,” I said, hissing, then padded towards the small knot of offices in the centre of the floor.

  Meredith avoided the offices like the plague, stating: “if I wanted to be in that rat race, I would have gone into business.” But even she had to handle some administrative tasks.

  I ran a greater risk of running into a staff member, but unless it was Shelton, I shouldn’t have to put up with much aside from awkward stares. If Shelton did show up, I would have to fight the urge to pull one of the light fixtures down on his head.

  Halfway there, it felt like I’d walked into a wall of metallic interference. I stumbled and would have fallen to one knee if I hadn’t braced a hand on the wall. Steadied by the steel girder behind the plaster, I took several seconds to sort out the atonal blast bludgeoning my mind. I could barely think at first, but little by little, I understood what was afflicting me.

  Metals, dozens upon dozens, possibly hundreds of different kinds, sent out overlapping ripples, each amplifying off of the others. The sheer number of angles staggered me, but the longer I endured, the more I could grasp the scope and complexity. Eyes closed, wincing, I began to discern the individual metals. The business of needles and string wasn’t enough to describe this volume and variety. This was a tapestry. Instead of noticing individual strands, I took in the whole picture. These metals sat in orderly rows, rank upon rank like a metallic army.

  I blinked up at the plastic sign fixed to the wall.

  METALS CATALOGUE ROOM

  “Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” I gasped as a drop of sweat ran down the bridge of my nose.

  No wonder I was doubled over. On the other side of the wall were hundreds of pure elements and alloys ranging the breadth of the periodic table. They were meant for comparison with artifacts and for stress tests.

  It was an impressive collection and a Windsor-sized pain in my arse.

  Shivering and doing my best to filter, I got to my feet. Human voices came through, talking in hoarse, half-whispers. The Metals room door was ajar …

  “… that’s entirely beside the point, Adrian,” a woman’s voice rasped. “Some of the junior staff heard what you said and are not happy about it.”

  Shelton’s sanctimonious voice answered, “What are you on about? They should appreciate her being held accountable.”

  I took in a sharp breath.

  “Young people love to debate what’s fair,” Meredith returned. “We were all puddin-headed plebes when we were young, even you. You know better than to make a scene like that.”

  Shelton sniffed, and I imagined him glaring down his nose at her.

  “Don’t you pull that rubbish with me, Adrian Shelton,” she snarled. “I’ve been part of this circus as long as you have. When it comes down to it, you know I’m here to help you course correct.”

  There was a moment of silence and then a huff. Shelton spoke again but with a softer, more human voice.

  “Yer right o’ course, Mer,” he admitted, a thick Scottish accent coming through. “Go on then, tell me what I buggered up this time.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Shelton acting like a reasonable member of our species and Meredith collaborating with the enemy?

  “Is it such a mystery?” she replied, her tone thick with sarcasm. “You just had to throw gender and skin colour into the mix. Didn’t you?”

  There was a stifled groan from Shelton. “Did I really do that?”

  “You did! You daft, old ass!”

  He had. The memory awakened a fresh fury in me. The rush of blood made my temples ache. I’d been so enraged by his bullying and belittling I’d never considered Shelton had targeted me for those factors. Shelton, the self-righteous brute, certainly. But Shelton, the racist misogynist, as well?

  The thought of a modern-day scholar in authority using his position to execute such petty and vile prejudices made me sick with rage. Without thinking, I mentally squeezed the tapestry of metallic resonance. In response, each sample rocked as one in their containers. A dull rattle swept the room, silencing both speakers.

  “What the devil was that?” Meredith gasped.

  I squeezed my eyes shut in horror, realising what I’d done.

  The silence stretched.

  “Just the underground,” Shelton said dismissively. There were footsteps, as though Shelton had begun pacing. “You’re right, Meredith. I made a mistake,” he continued in a lilt that I still struggled to associate with him. He must have worked very hard to cover it up if it was naturally that thick.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Meredith observed coolly. “Top brass gets word that you, a privileged white male, is throwing around bigoted language? They’ll fire you on the spot. God knows, archaeology catches enough flak over you blokes.”

  Another sigh from Shelton, a low, defeated sound I should have taken joy in. But all I heard was a man who was terribly weary. That was something I could and did sympathise with at least a little.

  “Och, skelp me raw!” Shelton gave a muffled groan. “That wee scunner’s boiled me proper!”

  I didn’t have a clue what he was saying, but felt my hackles rise. Who was he calling a ‘scunner?’

  “You’re hard on all of them,” Meredith cut in. “But why her? Why is it Ibby who gets you so topsy-turvy?”

  Shelton didn’t hesitate. “That harridan Schottelkirk’s been nippin’ at me since Bashir came, takin’ turns threatenin’ and flatterin’. Even before the daft rings, she had me runnin’ scared. I s’pose I just took it out on the gel.”

  I frowned, wondering what Professor Schottelkirk had over Shelton, but imagining her harrying him perpetually over me was a new thought. Even with seeing her so brittle and fearful didn’t change the fact that when she was in her element, she was an imposing woman. But he was still a racist woman-hater. Wasn’t he?

  “You could have Narissa come by …” Meredith began tentatively.

  “No,” Shelton snapped. “I’ll no be using my wife like that.”

  “She’d gladly do it to save your job!”

  “If my job is hangin’ on the colour of my wife’s skin, then ignorance has won, and I’m done anyway.”

  Okay, scratch the racist bit. What were the odds of misogyny sticking? Shelton was just a man with a temper and a tough job? That somehow seemed anticlimactic.

  “Well,” Meredith said, sighing. “At least you won before you went out.”

  “How d’you mean?” Shelton asked, sounding tired and very un-monstrous.

  “While you were talking with those Metro bobbies, Schottelkirk came by looki
ng a fright. She said in no uncertain terms she was no longer Ibby’s adviser. I’m not sure what happened, but the doors are shuttin’ hard on that girl. Shame, really.”

  I never heard Shelton’s reaction to the news.

  The shock of Schottelkirk’s betrayal was the proverbial straw to my overburdened camel. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back against the wall, my heart aching.

  I needed to escape, needed space. With a heave, I pushed away from the wall. My mental grip on the tapestry slewed hard to the side. The metals room crashed with the sound of ingots slamming around inside of their containers. Some of them threw themselves onto the floor.

  Meredith and Shelton’s voices rose in cries of alarm, but I was already running for the exit.

  My flat was still in a state from earlier that morning, and with the dying sun painting everything red, it made quite the statement about domestic, urban decay. The spider-web crack on the window, shattered glass on the floor, the fork still in the love seat.

  I choked back a sob.

  Life as I knew it had come to an abrupt end, and I only barely understood why. In fact, the only thing that kept me upright and moving was the knowledge violent men were looking for me. I wanted to crumple onto my mattress and sleep through the next two terms.

  Why think of time in terms? You aren’t in school … not anymore.

  Every pillar I’d built my life and future on seemed to be falling apart, and I was just trying not to get caught in the collapse. My mind raced, searching for something solid to hang on to. The old underground map came to mind. It wasn’t a comfort or even much of a plan, but it was a direction.

  Surveying my flat, I wondered what I should take on my little underground expedition.

  Something wasn’t right. After living here for a while, I’d become accustomed to the building’s noises and patterns: the series of doors closing, steps upon the stairs as residents got off to work in the morning and the rumble from the basement in the evening while they did laundry.

  I’d started to gather some clothes when I finally sussed it out — the footsteps on the stairs. This was the time of day when kids were back from school and raising an utter racket. There was no raucous noise, but there was the sound of heavy adult-sized steps from the stairwell.