Pentacle Pawn Boxed Set

by Amanda Hartford

  Was it Penelope who was doing the looking?

  ♦

  Ravens are omnivores, and I should’ve expected what came next.

  I fed Frank and put down fresh shelled peanuts for Edgar. Each was happily digging in when I left the storeroom and headed back to my desk.

  Thirty seconds later, I heard an indignant hiss, followed by a loud caw. The front door opened to allow Edgar to soar out, gripping one of Frank’s juicy sardines in his beak.

  I had no intention of getting involved. Those two were going to have to work this out on their own.

  Chapter Six

  It was time to take a closer look at Emil Portiere’s puzzle ball.

  Mark cast an eyebrow at the leather-bound box. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  He opened the lid and removed the ivory ball, weighing it in his hand. “Have you tested this?”

  “It’s too heavy to be plastic. Besides, the feel is all wrong.”

  “I agree – but it’s too heavy to be ivory, too. I think it’s some kind of bone.” He handed it to me, and I hefted it. He was right.

  People think of ivory as elephant tusk, but that’s only part of the story. Tusks are teeth, and carved ivory has come from all kinds of creatures: whales, walrus, even pigs and elk. Each has its own structure, and there’s an entire science devoted to identifying types of ivory based on the texture of its grain.

  For as many centuries as people have valued ivory, other people have tried to counterfeit it. Early attempts included carved beans and nuts and various kinds of bone, right up to celluloid and plastics today. There’s even been ivory paste, which is exactly what it sounds like: ivory dust, swept up and immersed in glue or resin to create a moldable solid. It’s easy to get snookered.

  I pulled the black light out of my desk drawer and plugged it in. Most plastics don’t fluoresce: most bone and ivory do, in various shades of white or yellow. The color is a clue to its composition.

  I switched off my desk lamp and ran the black light over the dragon puzzle.

  It glowed a brilliant lime green.

  “Weird,” Mark and I said together.

  I’d seen this before, but it was when I was assessing a gold nugget. The quartz matrix in which the nugget was embedded glowed exactly this color.

  I turned on my desk lamp and put the black light away. “So, stone, not bone,” I said.

  Mark held the dragon puzzle to the light and picked up a magnifying glass. “The surface and the weight could be right for that. But if that’s true, this was done by someone who was way beyond even a master craftsman. Carving multiple concentric globes in ivory takes a lifetime of skill– and ivory is only a two or three on the Mohs hardness scale. Quartz is a seven. Keep in mind: a diamond is only a ten. The chances of cracking or nicking this while you were working on it...”

  “What if you used some kind of computerized cutter? Sort of like a 3D printer or an automated lathe?”

  “Maybe. I read a lot about new tech and I’ve never seen it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist in some billionaire’s lab.”

  “What you’re saying is: this was not done in the regular world.”

  “I guess that’s what I’m saying.” Mark tucked the ball back into its case. “But you’re making a magical object here. It would make sense that you would use the best of both the magical and the regular world.”

  “But why? Why would you go to that much trouble to create an object that can be much more easily made in a softer material?”

  I realized the answer.

  Let’s talk fossils. A fossil is simply any organic artifact that is more than 10,000 years old, but there’s a big difference between a mammoth fossil and a T-Rex. Mammoth tusks are precisely that: the actual teeth of an extinct elephant ancestor that has been buried for millennia in permafrost or peat, protecting it but not changing its chemical structure. A dinosaur fossil is petrified, which is something else entirely. The animal’s body became buried in mud or sand and, over time, water seeped through, carrying minerals such as quartz that eventually replaced the organic material in the exact shape of the original.

  The process takes at least five million years, and in the end, there is no organic material remaining– or that’s at least what scientists have thought. In the last few years, researchers have cracked open dinosaur fossils and discovered what looks suspiciously like the structure of whole, intact cells. They will be arguing for decades about whether this is really dinosaur tissue, and nobody has found DNA yet, but it does make for an interesting conversation in the scientific community.

  In the magical community, we’ve always understood that the essence of a living being survives whenever organic remains are left behind, whether that creature died two weeks or 200 million years ago.

  Was Penelope trying to build herself a dinosaur?

  ♦

  I worried that Edgar was getting too used to human companionship, but Bessie reassured me. “He’s a wild bird,” she said. “Ravens are smart, and they’re easily bored. He likes hanging out with you, but when he’s well enough, he’ll go looking for his own kind.”

  I’d already discovered that a bored raven was a naughty raven. Edgar had entirely unraveled a throw rug one rainy afternoon, carefully placing the strands in a pile. He looked a little smug when I yelled at him. His thievery continued, and we had to keep all shiny objects out of sight, or our keys and small change ended up in the gravel under the manzanita branch.

  Edgar had a thirst for learning, so I decided to use his love of small objects to create a game. I dug in my purse for two shiny new pennies and put them on the patio table.

  Edgar hopped right over; he wanted those pennies. He was just waiting for me to look away, but instead, he watched with interest as I dug in my purse and pulled out a dime. I placed it next to the pennies.

  “Which one like?” I asked as I tapped one of the pennies.

  Edgar cocked his head at me.

  “Which one like?” I asked again, tapping the penny.

  Edgar tapped the same penny with his beak and looked up at me expectantly.

  “No,” I said gently. “Which one like?” I asked again, but this time, I tapped the first penny and then the second one.

  Edgar looked at me like I’ve been holding out on him.

  Which one like?” I asked, tapping the first penny.

  Edgar tapped the second one.

  “Good bird!” I gushed, handing him a shelled peanut.

  Now I made it harder. I moved the pennies apart and slid the dime between them. I tapped a penny. Which one like?” I asked.

  Edgar ruffled his feathers and, without hesitation, tapped the other penny.

  I handed over another peanut. “Good bird!”

  So, Edgar understood the concept. But could he figure it out in the negative? I tapped the dime. “Which one like?”

  Edgar cocked his head and gave me a dirty look.

  “Which one like?” I insisted.

  Edgar hunched down on the table, making himself small as if I’d threatened him. “No!” he cawed. “No! No! No!”

  I grinned and put a handful of shelled peanuts in the tin cup I’d mounted to his manzanita perch. Edgar flew over to claim his prize as I picked up the loose change. “Good bird!” I told him over and over.

  ♦

  We need to have a little chat, Frank said when I fed him that night. Edgar was still out, so I had a pretty good idea what this was about.

  I was doing paperwork when Frank arrived on my desk, grooming the last of the sardines off of his whiskers. “What can I do for you, Frank?”

  It’s not sanitary, you know, having that bird in here.

  I smiled to myself. “Some might say that about having a litter box in the bathroom.”

  Frank was deeply offended. That is not the same thing.

  “That is exactly the same thing.” Edgar’s parrot perch came with a tray that I kept filled with the same kitty litter I used in Frank’s box. I
changed both of them every night.

  Frank decided to try another tactic. He’s very noisy.

  “And you’re very opinionated.”

  Birds get lice.

  “Cats get fleas,” I purred, giving him my most condescending smile.

  I. Do. Not. Frank sputtered in anger.

  I reached over and scratched between his ears – something he loves on most days, but tonight he scooted back out of my reach. Maybe I really had hurt his feelings.

  “Look, Frank, I don’t know how long Edgar will be with us. He’s a wild bird, and it’s up to him. But for as long as he chooses, he’s welcome here. I’d love it if you two would learn to get along, but I will settle for a negotiated truce. You don’t bother him; he won’t bother you. Agreed?”

  Frank squinted his eyes and twitched his tail. He had lost his argument, and he knew it. He decided to cut his losses. I remain head of security for Pentacle Pawn, correct?

  “Correct.”

  And I remain free to report any infractions? Frank was looking for permission to tattle.

  “Within reason.”

  It would have to do. Frank stood and, with great dignity, strode back within arm’s reach. You may pet your cat now.

  Chapter Seven

  I made Mark a happy, happy guy when I sent him off to explore Violet Portiere’s library.

  Because Violet predeceased Emil by only a few weeks, her estate was still in disarray. The attorney she and her brother shared sounded rather harried when I called him back. I explained that we were in the middle of our appraisal, but we needed more information about the origin of the object. He was more than happy to let us do the legwork.

  According to the attorney, Emil had been given the dragon puzzle, but the supporting paperwork was still at Violet’s home in the old section of Beverly Hills. The attorney offered to contact her lawyers there and arrange for us to pick up the key.

  Violet’s home was closed up but not packed up, as if she might return at any moment. Mark said it was pretty creepy. All of the furniture was covered with bedsheets in the way that English country houses were closed up a century ago when their owners traveled to India. Violet’s maintenance staff was no longer on retainer, and a fine layer of dust covered everything.

  Per our agreement with the lawyers, Mark was permitted to be in Violet’s house for only this one day. He quickly regretted having agreed to this. Violet had been a world-class collector. Every surface, every shelf, every cabinet held wonders.

  Violet had set aside an entire room for her collection of arcane objects. Two entire walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with beautiful oak bookcases with leaded glass doors. The section Mark wanted was in the middle, but the door was locked with an antique key lock and a simple spell. Closer inspection showed that the locks, both physical and magical, were mostly for show: they protected only the doors themselves, not the entire bookcase. Mark found an ice pick and meat tenderizing hammer in the kitchen and tapped the hinge pins out of the doors so that he could lift them away, locks and all.

  Inside were four shelves of antique books. Mark scanned the titles on the spines. Most dated from the 18th and 19th centuries: obscure texts and treatises by second-tier scholars on anecdotal branches of magic. Violet had very eclectic tastes.

  Mark did a quick scan for any magical protections, but he didn’t really expect to find anything and he found none. Movies and television love to show ancient books protected by spells, but that’s rubbish. It makes absolutely no sense to put a protective spell on a book that you use every day. It’s a lot of bother for you, but it doesn’t provide much security. It’s like keeping your money in a locked cash box, and then just leaving it out on the counter where the bad guys can find it and cart it off to pick apart at their leisure.

  Mark began going through the books. Rare books are like any other collectibles; some have only sentimental or personal value, while others (think: Gutenberg Bible) have intrinsic value in themselves. Violet’s collection was almost entirely in the first category, but Mark found it engrossing. Most were titles he had seen before, either in first editions as these were or in modern reprints.

  I’d sent Mark to look for information about the dragon puzzle, and he hit the jackpot. On the middle shelf, propped up between two rosewood boxes, were two manuscripts and two handwritten journals, all in matching gilded leather bindings.

  The newer manuscript was in French. It was dated 1728, but it had been made to look much older, as if the writer was trying to place it within a much older tradition. It had been printed with hand-cast movable type – state-of-the-art technology for its time – and several woodblock prints had been bound into the volume. Someone had written annotations in a strong hand, perhaps male, in dark ink along the margins.

  The older manuscript, written in Latin, had been hand-lettered on vellum prepared from calfskin. Mark recognized the style of medieval illuminated manuscripts, but this was no religious text. It appeared to be a scientific work, and it was full of intricate charts and line drawings. It had been lettered in a delicate, almost feminine, hand. The same male hand that had annotated the French manuscript had also written notes in the wide margins of this book. Mark was at first shocked by the desecration, but then he realized that, to that owner, these were working manuals, not rare artifacts to be cosseted instead of read.

  Each manuscript contained a red silk bookmark, lavishly embroidered in gold thread at one end with a Chinese dragon. When Mark turned to those pages, he found illustrations. In the older book, it was a hand-inked and illuminated sketch; in the newer edition, it was a woodblock print. In both books, the subject was the same. He was looking at the dragon puzzle.

  Mark turned to the rosewood boxes. The first box contained a whale tooth covered in elaborate scrimshaw of a 19th-century whaling scene. Mark’s an animal lover, and he quickly closed the box and set it back on the shelf. The second box he found more interesting. It contained a smaller duplicate of the dragon puzzle that currently sat in my vault.

  Mark held the intricately carved ball in his hand and ran his thumb along the grain. The carving appeared to be identical, but he was sure that this one was very old ivory. Mark understood that this was not a duplicate of the larger puzzle – it was the prototype.

  Mark called me, and I called the lawyer. While Mark worked his way through the rest of the bookshelf, we worked out a deal to consign both pieces as a set. We each had our reasons for wanting to get this deal done.

  ♦

  Mark called me to say that he was driving home. He decided that he didn’t want to try to take the books and the ivory puzzle ball through airport security without proper documentation and Endangered Species Act waivers. He was afraid to run the risk that some overzealous TSA inspector might confiscate any or all of the objects. Mark picked up a rental car and headed east.

  He made it back to Scottsdale eight hours later, including a stop on the junk food strip in Blythe, California, on the state line next to the Colorado River, to grab a burger on the run.

  His first temptation was to drive straight to the shop, but he didn’t want the frequent police patrols to question his rental car parked in Old Town at four in the morning, long after the bars closed. He drove home and summoned Stella (with the app, not magic–always keep it simple when you can) to Uber him to Pentacle Pawn.

  Old books are Mark’s favorite thing in the world, and the dustier, the better. He’d had eight hours in the car to think about Violet’s spellbooks, and he wanted to share what he’d learned.

  While he spread the books out on the table, I popped downstairs and put Violet’s puzzle ball away in the vault. After my encounters with the larger version, I decided not to take any chances with this one. I found an empty lead-lined drawer on the opposite side of the vault from where the larger ball was stored. I laid on an extra protective ward, just for extra measure.

  Back upstairs, Mark had made coffee. He always brought his own blend, and the delicious aroma had filled the showroo
m. I poured us each a cup – black and strong, a habit left over from our teaching days.

  Mark was poring over Violet’s books. The two smaller ones appeared to be Violet’s personal journals. The larger books – the spell books – were much older. Somebody, probably Violet, had hired someone to expertly rebind the manuscripts in identical bindings, but the pages themselves had been created across the span of nearly a thousand years.

  One of the spellbooks lay open on the table while Mark cross-referenced it to a page in the blue journal. “This is very detailed research,” he said admiringly. “Violet encoded her entries, some personal code that I haven’t quite been able to crack. Some of this writing is backward, like in da Vinci’s journal, like she wrote it with her left hand. She’s also a pretty good artist.” He pointed to a line drawing that appeared to have been done with a fountain pen. It was a very accurate rendering of the dragon puzzle. At the bottom of the page was a second drawing, this one depicting a gracefully rendered delta kite.

  I tried to read the backward script that surrounded the drawings, but it didn’t make any sense to me. I realized I was squinting my eyes at the text. Everybody does that. When in the history of the world has that ever worked? I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I think Violet was trying to work out how the puzzle worked – what it can do. She’d made some progress.” He pointed at the sketch of the puzzle. “See how all the holes line up down through all thirteen layers? I think that activates the puzzle. Once all the layers are aligned, the spell can be invoked.”

  “To do what?”

  “That.” He pointed at the kite.

  “She’s going through all this just to go fly a kite? I don’t think so – doesn’t sound like Penelope.”

  “No, no. Think of it in magical terms. She’s trying to figure out if this object is a finder or a binder or both. Something gave her this image of the kite. Maybe something in one of the other texts...” He motioned at the two bound manuscripts. “... And she put it together with something she’d found out, maybe by trial and error. Our Penelope is pretty persistent.”