The Crown of Fire

by Tony Abbott

  The object was fantastically ornate, consisting of a large gold globe surrounded by seven slightly tilted and concentric rings, each of which had a small orb—a planet—embedded in it. Atop the globe was a very small lyre, strung with five delicate wires—the strings of the lyre. Inside the concentric rings stood a large crystal clock face that showed the twelve hours. The slender golden minute and hour hands did not move.

  “It’s beautiful,” Sara said. “So . . . strange and definitely representative of Lyra.”

  “Strange, yes!” said Fortier. “But now we listen!” Gently taking the clock from Wade—it had stopped, how long ago was anyone’s guess—the Frenchman set the hands to the present hour, just before one. They waited until the minute hand clicked home, and the clock chimed once softly. They waited, but nothing else happened.

  “Is it broken?” asked Darrell. “Is there a code we don’t know?”

  “A code?” said Becca. “Hold on.” She held the five-franc note in the glow of Wade’s flashlight and examined the numbers written on the Panthéon side of the bill. “Maybe there’s something here. Look.” She showed them.

  @24@7@5

  “Wait. How could I have missed this?” she said. “Twenty-four and seven could be for the twenty-fourth of July—which is today. As if someone knew we were going to be here. So maybe the five is for the hour? What if we set the clock to five?”

  “Wait a second,” said Wade. “I want to check Uncle Henry’s star chart.” He dug out the celestial map from his backpack. Under the glow of his flashlight he found Lyra. “Lyra has five main stars. That’s it.”

  “Henri, set the clock to five,” said Sara.

  Fortier carefully set the hands just before 5. A moment later they reached the hour.

  Bing! Tung! Dong! Tong! Ding!

  The notes combined in a low ringing tone that sustained for several seconds before it became part of the darkness around them. Then, all at once, the large globe split in two to reveal a small lyre-shaped mechanical device inside.

  Lily gasped. “Lyra itself!”

  As with the other relics, Lyra bore a strange, almost unearthly appearance. It was undeniably mechanical, but also a kind of exquisite art object, U-shaped and strung with five delicate wires. Nearly invisible in the elaborate carving on its base was a sort of on-off lever. Sara touched it, and the lyre resonated softly with a series of notes, pausing a moment before starting the same sequence again.

  “There’s a code there,” Becca said. “I know there is.”

  Gemstones were embedded along each of the twin crescent arms of the lyre. Its base was thick and etched with indentations that might be one-half of a locking device.

  “When . . . when Dad gets out of Gran Sasso, he can tell us how this fits into the astrolabe,” said Wade. “In the meantime, we have what we need—”

  A police siren wailed suddenly from the streets outside.

  “Everyone out!” Sara said, turning off the tones and setting the relic carefully into her large bag. The device instantly went dark, like an insect folding up when you touch it. More wailing sirens approached. “We don’t want the police stopping us.”

  “After myself you go!” Fortier said, already running toward the stairs.

  The kids quickly sealed the empty clock back in Voltaire’s tomb, reset the lock, and followed the antiquarian out of the crypt to the main floor. The sirens shrieked closer still.

  Something crashed to the floor.

  “Ils ont la relique! Dépêchez-vous!” someone called, and several sets of footsteps echoed across the large open space.

  “He said we have the relic,” whispered Becca. “The police may be coming, but that was an agent of the Order—there they are!” She spied a handful of figures moving quickly across the open floor, while another group blocked the way out.

  “Up the ropes to the dome!” Lily hissed, running toward the columns.

  Becca hurried across the floor after her and jumped up to the rope seconds after Lily, grabbing it with both hands. Her left arm was on fire. She couldn’t hold on for more than a few seconds before she slid down and stumbled to the floor.

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “I’ll help you.” Wade moved up behind her, lifting her with each step. Darrell, Sara, and Fortier followed close after, making their way hand over hand up the ropes.

  Becca climbed up with every ounce of strength she could find, “walking up” one of the columns to brace herself when her feet slipped off the knots. Wade was right there with her, nudging her upward.

  By the time they reached the dome’s ledge, spotlights were coming on here and there inside the building. The actual police must be here, too, Becca thought when the vast dome suddenly burst into light. A muffled shot exploded near her; a chunk of molding burst, fell, and splattered on the floor below. Shouts came from somewhere else.

  “Arrêtez de tirer à la fois! Vous êtes encerclés par la sécurité!” “Stop at once. You’re surrounded by security.” That was the real police. Gunfire answered the request, and there was scrambling across the marble floor. One of the spotlights went dark. Shots became distant, as if the police were being driven back.

  “Kaplans!”

  It was the familiar, frightening, yet calm voice of Markus Wolff. Becca peeked down over the rim. Wolff’s short white hair was visible among the shadows.

  “You cannot survive,” he continued. “None of you can. This will end with Galina’s victory. Give up now.”

  “Answer him not,” whispered Fortier as he scurried toward the hatch.

  They crawled along the ledge toward the opening, but before they got there the Panthéon erupted in gunfire as the agents of the Order riddled the rim with bullets. Wolff shouted, and they stopped firing. Becca saw the rope pull tight.

  “Wolff is climbing up!” she whispered.

  Wade helped her along the rim to the hatch, where Sara and Fortier were waiting. Then a single blast exploded on the edge of the rim and threw the antiquarian back against the wall. Wolff was up on the rim now, his weapon out. Fortier sank to the floor and tugged out the two pistols his wife had stuffed into his cloak. Becca watched, horrified, as he shot them one after the other at the white-haired assassin. Wolff stopped. He staggered. His gun dropped to the dome, then off the side, crashing to the floor below.

  Becca slipped through the hatch as Wade and Darrell reached back and dragged Fortier out. He clutched his shoulder, wounded by Wolff, but he was grinning. “Aha! Aha! We did this thing!”

  Scurrying to the end of the construction curtain, Becca looked over. The Place du Panthéon was filling with people. A half-dozen police vehicles were parked at angles across the square. At least three squads of helmeted officers armed with riot gear fanned out to surround the building. The area was cordoned off as if it were an active terrorist scene.

  Luckily, there was enough confusion for Becca and the others to climb down the scaffolding without being seen. By the time she touched the ground, her head pounded, her left eye throbbed and stung, and it felt like someone was jabbing her wound with a dagger. Following the others, with Wade at her elbow, she hurried across the open square. Amid the chaos and noise and lights and people running, they weren’t spotted. They were soon moving quickly into the winding streets behind the Panthéon.

  And they had Lyra.

  The eighth of the twelve relics.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Darting into a sequence of narrow streets, Wade kept close to Becca. He knew she was trying not to show pain or exhaustion, but it was slowing her movements, her reactions.

  “The others can move on ahead,” he said. “We’ll stick together.”

  “I’ll be okay once I catch my breath,” she said. She redoubled her speed, pulled ahead of him. “I’ll be good.”

  It wasn’t good. But there also wasn’t time to do anything but push along. More and more police cars and vans whizzed past them as they entered a series of short switchbacks and alleyways. They came out finall
y on a wide, busy boulevard.

  “I hope the cops catch Wolff,” he said. “He was wounded. Fortier hit him. Maybe it’ll slow him down. That’ll be one less killer out there. Like Cassa.”

  Becca snorted a laugh. “Wolff won’t be caught. He’s too smart. He must have figured out Marceline’s ruse, or seen us by accident. Either way, we’ll see him again.”

  Darrell was hustling on the opposite side of the street with his mother and Lily, a loose trio. They kept in eye contact with Wade and Becca, and both of them with Fortier.

  Soon they were in the streets behind the Luxembourg Gardens. Wade slowed, tried to keep hold of Becca’s good arm, but she shook him off.

  He didn’t like it, but now wasn’t the time for a talk. They needed to get off the streets.

  “You have what you seek,” Fortier said when they converged in a deserted alleyway between two blocks of old buildings. He doffed his hat and swirled his cape. “No more of me is needed. May our paths crisscross again in times yet to come.”

  A police van cruised along the street, pausing at the nearest corner before moving on.

  “Henri Fortier, you are a true Guardian,” Sara said. “Thank you for everything. But you must know this adventure puts you in danger.”

  “Pah!” Fortier shrugged. “Mrs. Fortier and myself can protect myself and herself. Count on I to join your searchings whenever. Until now!” With an elaborate bow and a final swoosh of his cape, he went tapping his cane down the street and away.

  Wade realized they were alone again. “I guess we need a new safe house.”

  “Let me look for a small hotel,” Sara said.

  “Good,” said Lily. “In the meantime, Lyra might give us a clue to where the next relic is. My guess would be that it’s in the music of its notes. Darrell, as resident musician, maybe you could—”

  “I’ll try,” he said. “But I need a quiet place. Super-quiet. With no noise.”

  “How about a church?” asked Becca. “They’re open at all hours, some of them. We could all rest for a while pretty safely, I think.”

  “Good idea,” said Wade, glancing at Becca’s face, but not for too long. “Darrell can listen to Lyra’s chimes and figure out what they mean.”

  Maybe, Darrell thought. If only.

  For the next half hour they zigzagged north toward the river, ending up at a place called the Church of Saint-Sulpice, a double-towered white structure that looked more like a classical library than a church. His mother pulled open a normal-size door, and they entered the candlelit sanctuary. It was deathly quiet in there, muffled and cold. Without breathing a word, they took seats near the altar where it was brightest. Darrell closed his eyes to try and calm his beating heart.

  Maybe he fell asleep for a little while, maybe they all did, but when he opened his eyes again Wade was sitting one chair away from him, and the relic was on the seat in between. No words. Just quiet. But the church was lighter. Time had passed since they’d come in. If only Darrell could find the answer to the chimes. For himself; for Lily, Wade, Becca, his mother, his stepfather, everyone. They’d have a direction forward if he did; they’d have a starting place. Never mind that he was still exhausted by the whole Cuba thing. If he couldn’t solve the riddle of the tones, this present riddle, where would they be? Nowhere good.

  Outside, the dim light of dawn was turning slowly into another summer morning. He remembered how summer used to feel, and it didn’t feel that way anymore. They were always on the run now. What a life! And yet, here he was in a church in France to watch the windows in the east begin to glow—red, blue, yellow, purple. It was beautiful. It was amazing for a kid from Texas. Too bad he couldn’t enjoy it very long.

  There was work to do.

  Picking up the heavy relic, he examined it carefully. He turned the lever on and listened to the strings ring their melody several times through. Twelve notes sounded before there was a long pause, then the melody began again. It wasn’t a tune he knew, or any real tune, really. Just a series of random notes he knew were not at all random.

  Becca slid down the row of chairs to him and Wade. She was holding the five-franc note. She’d been pretty quiet since getting out of the Panthéon. Well, sure, she wasn’t feeling great. Or maybe she was thinking something she wasn’t ready to say yet, maybe something about the French money.

  She was like Lily in that. Girls were quiet. Not because they didn’t know something—not like when he didn’t know something, which usually made him want to talk more. But because they were pondering an idea they wouldn’t share until they were ready to.

  When Darrell’s mother, then Lily, joined them, Becca was apparently ready.

  “Guys, this is getting too big for us,” she said. “I mean, the puzzle is huge, and it’s getting bigger. But we have no plan. Without the network of Guardians, even with people like Marceline Dufort and Henri Fortier, we’re moving too slowly. We can locate a relic, maybe, but we can’t put together all the little bits and pieces of the huge thing that’s going to happen. I’m really worried about what comes next. The Protocol.”

  “You know, yes,” said Sara. She stood, then sat again. “We need to know that Roald is safe. We need to. Terence, also. Not just because we love them, but because we need to work together. The big picture is something we don’t have. There are only four relics left to find. Whatever Galina’s deadline actually is and what it means, it’s getting closer every day. We have to think of an endgame before it’s too late. How the whole thing plays out. The Frombork Protocol and everything that we need to stop Galina.”

  Becca nodded over and over. “I keep thinking there’s got to be someone who can help us. Someone who knows. And only one person comes to mind.”

  “Me?” said Darrell. “Wait, no. You mean someone else.”

  “Carlo,” she said. “Carlo Nuovenuto.”

  It was a name from the long-ago past. One of the first real Guardians they had met, Carlo became an instant friend when he gave the kids Nicolaus Copernicus’s private diary. When he and his school were viciously attacked by agents of the Order, he’d helped them escape. Then he seemed to have vanished.

  They’d heard nothing from Carlo for over four months.

  “He’s been in the background of this search from the beginning,” Darrell said. “We need to have him with us at the end. To explain the Protocol. To explain how collecting the relics is supposed to go down.”

  “Is he even alive?” Lily said. “We haven’t heard a peep from him for so long. He just . . . disappeared.”

  “But wouldn’t we have heard if he were hurt?” Darrell said. “Simon Tingle would have told us something. Or Isabella. Or Papa Dean.”

  “Hope,” said Becca. “That’s what Copernicus told me. Or what I think he told me or what I hallucinated he told me. Maybe it’s our word from now on. We should just hope that Carlo is alive and that we can reach him. Either way, we should at least try to get a message to him. Somehow.” She stared down at the five-franc bill. “Maybe he has something to do with this message. Someone wanted us to go to the Panthéon this very day. Whoever it is also wants us to go to the Place des Vosges on August second.”

  Darrell watched his mother this whole time. She was working on something, too.

  She stood up again. “Becca, you’re absolutely right. Without direction, we’re just inching along. Wade, please write a message—in code—and let’s pass it to Marceline to give to the only Guardian we know how to find. Isabella Mercanti. Maybe she can go through channels, if there are any left, and find Carlo. Agreed?”

  They all agreed.

  “Good,” Darrell said. “We have a plan. In the meantime, please keep quiet so I can work on Lyra.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Delhi, India

  July 28

  Late morning

  Carlo Nuovenuto wove as politely as he could through the dense crowd of the Chawri Bazar in Delhi Central. He passed innumerable market stalls, open shops selling copper wares, tables mounded wi
th exotic produce, carts of steaming soups and stews and sauces. It was a labyrinth of treasures and temptations. Two steps forward, one to the side, one back, a step forward, another step. There was no movement without brushing closely against five or six other people.

  Scooters, rickshaws, sitters, standers, gawkers, walkers, runners, the occasional delivery van, tiny cars, crowding the alleys and paths; all these made travel nearly impossible. You had to drift with the river-like flow, and Carlo found he loved it.

  Or would have loved it, if he’d had time to think about it.

  It was late and getting later with each passing moment. A lot had happened over the last four and a half months. After Bologna in March when he presented Nicolaus’s secret diary to the Kaplan children, he’d had to vanish. Taking refuge in the underground—the increasingly unstable and aging network of Guardian hideouts around the globe—allowed him not only to stay alive, but to closely monitor the progress of Galina and the children toward their ultimate encounter with the Frombork Protocol.

  Could I have helped the Kaplans? Certainly. But I might have—would have—fallen the victim of time, and then where would they be? Their victory over Galina would be compromised. Or utterly impossible.

  “Impossible?” he said aloud. “Ridiculous word, after all.”

  But now the final battle was coming. The Guardian network was dissolving. Over two hundred of his colleagues had been murdered in the last two months. Many of them had protected his whereabouts. It crushed him to think of them, to see their faces in his mind, knowing that she, the demon woman, could be so cold-blooded and ruthless, and as evil as a serpent. No, the day he’d hoped to forestall was looming closer than ever on the horizon. Carlo Nuovenuto could no longer be vanished.

  Slowing to a near standstill amid the chaos, he sighted a blue sign over an arched doorway. He parted from the roaring crowd and stepped into the infinitely quieter storefront temple of Lord Ganesha, the god of beginnings, the elephant-headed, many-armed patron of the arts and sciences and the remover of obstacles.

  Should he wish for more obstacles to slow down the inevitable end?