by C. E. Murphy
“It’s more unpredictable. I don’t like unpredictable. Speaking of which, what are you doing here?”
Ghean’s eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath her bangs. “Is my appearance unpredictable?”
Methos cast a glance at her, then chuckled despite himself. “I was expecting you while I was down at the beach,” he confessed.
“I see. I’ll have to work on my timing, then.” Ghean folded her arms, leaning against the headboard. “I’ve painted a glowing review of you, Methos. Michael’s expecting a venerable old man, or a child of genuis beyond compare.”
Methos leaned backwards in the plush-covered chair, tilting it precariously far and snagging the door with his fingertips to swing it closed as Ghean used his real name again. Her eyebrows lifted, curious, and he shook his head. “You’re going to have to learn to call me Adam.”
“Why? We’re behind closed doors now.”
“Don’t be difficult.”
Ghean dimpled, an almost apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, Adam. But since we are behind closed doors, can’t I use your true name?”
Goosebumps ran over Methos’ arms, even under the greatcoat he hadn’t shed. A true name is a thing of power. And you, despite your years, are a superstitious old man, he chided himself. “Just watch it in public, Ghean. Legends are confirmed by chance encounters and evesdropping, and I much prefer my status to be legendary instead of confirmed.”
Ghean pursed her lips, lifting a hand to tap her thumb against her mouth idly. “Were you this paranoid in Atlantis, Methos?”
“No,” he said shortly. “But I was a lot younger then, too.”
Ghean was silent a moment, folding her arms again. “Tell me about your life, Methos,” she asked quietly. “Tell me about the life I might have lived. Would you have ever told me what I was?”
Methos lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was going to,” he sighed. “Despite the Rules, I was going to. In a few years, five or six years. You were so young, Ghean. I didn’t want to jeapordize the enthusiasm for life you had, the enthusiasm that I loved so much. Even Aroz agreed with me, tacitly, at least. I thought we had time.” He dropped his hand, looking up at her again.
Ghean regarded him steadily in return. She wore a white silk tanktop tucked into an above-the-knee black skirt. The tank left her arms bared, showing more muscle than Methos remembered from Atlantis. She’d left her shoes, black pumps, on the floor, and had her ankles crossed in front of her on the bed. The necklace of Aries was caught in her arms, the silver chain loose against her neck. Her hair was held back by a white headband, leaving her bangs down. She looked astonishingly kitten-like, brown eyes tempered with curiousity.
Methos shut his eyes agains the image, standing to pull his coat off and drop it over the back of the chair. “You read the Methos Chronicles that the Watchers kept. You’ve read a lot of the life you might have lived.” He sat back down, shaking his head. “Another time, I’ll tell you about some of it. Tell me about this role I’m supposed to play.”
“You sound like I’ve assigned it to you.” Ghean’s face lost the odd youthfulness and settled into more determined lines. “It was your idea to tag along on my exploration.”
“Yes, but you told your Dr. Powers that I was inutterably clever. While I’d never disagree, I need to know how far my supposed boundaries stretch.”
“He’s known me for years,” Ghean defended herself. “I can only push my own apparent knowledge so far, before it starts to look suspicious. You wanted to come along. The least I could do was make you useful to me.”
“I live to serve,” Methos said dryly. “What do I know, Ghean, or shall I just make it up as I go along?” He steepled his fingers, listening intently as Ghean outline the history she’d sketched for Michael. “Good God,” Methos burst out when she was done. “You told him I could translate Atlantean?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said smoothly. “I merely suggested that if anyone could, you could. Besides, there may be nothing left. The paper and scrolls won’t have survived.”
“Unless they’re encapsulated like the Book was,” Methos said.
“Even so, the room might have been destroyed. Those boxes won’t hold up under being crushed to a pulp, no matter how well made they were.” Ghean took a rose-embroidered pillow and switched ends of the bed, rolling onto her stomach and folding the pillow under her chin so she could keep watching Methos.
Methos arched an eyebrow. “Do you think it was destroyed?”
Ghean hestiated. “I don’t want it to have been,” she said. “There isn’t a great deal left to the city, Methos. The road structure is still visible, and some of the buildings are left, mostly partial remains. Without something like the Book, I may never prove that Atlantis was the great advanced civilization of legend.”
“How were you going to do that before I told you where the Book was?”
Ghean shrugged a shoulder. “With whatever I could find. The sewer system was too far underground to be able to dig up, but I hoped for some of the artwork to have survived, maybe some of the houses. I want to try to find the library again and see if anything there was miraculously preserved. Some of the older books were kept in the boxes to keep them from corroding in the air. The Book would make it all a lot easier.”
“Is that what you’re looking for, Ghean? Ease of fame and fortune? You’ve got that, you know. Even if they decide this isn’t Atlantis, you’ve made an incredible find.”
Ghean’s eyes glittered as she looked up at Methos. “No,” she said softly. “I don’t care about fame or fortune. I want Atlantis back.”
Methos shook his head. “It’s gone, Ghean. It’s been gone for thousands of years. The past doesn’t come back.”
“I did,” Ghean said, “You did. All we need is the island, now.”
“I doubt you’re going to be able to raise it from the sea floor, Ghean. Somebody doesn’t like it when Immortals fight on holy ground. Atlantis is drowned for good.”
Ghean shifted again, sitting with her legs folded under her, the pillow hugged across her middle. “How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know something terrible would happen?”
Methos spread his hands. “The Rules,” he said helplessly. “No fighting on holy ground. I didn’t know what would happen, and I didn’t want to stay to find out. It’s not that I remember being in a similiar situation before Atlantis. I just trusted the Rules.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re the first thing I remember?” Methos shrugged. “I don’t know, Ghean. It was holy ground, the Rules say no fighting on holy ground, the sky was boiling black. It seemed like running was the best possible option. I can’t give you a better reason. I just wanted to run, and so I did.”
“A lot of people would call you a coward,” Ghean observed quietly.
“A lot of people,” Methos said, “would have died at Atlantis. What do you want me to say, Ghean? Do you want me to say I’m sorry? I’m sorry you were caught in an oubliette for four and a half millennia. Does that help? Does it make it better, or make it all go away?”
Ghean’s shoulders tensed as she looked at Methos. “Are you sorry you didn’t try to rescue me?”
“No,” Methos said, and watched everything gentle drain from Ghean’s face. “I’m sorry you were trapped, Ghean. I’m sorry you went through that, but you’re asking me to be sorry for putting my survival first, and I won’t do that.”
Ghean stood up, putting her shoes on and placing the pillow very carefully back at the head of the bed. “The first expedition leaves at seven, Tuesday morning. We’ll be leaving promptly, so please be on time.” She brushed past him, stopping just inside the door to look over her shoulder. “You could have lied.”
Methos listened to the staccato clip of her heels going down the hallway, and stood to go to the window then the sound faded entirely. Ghean went out the front door, climbing into her car and slamming the door with a hard dull thud. Seconds later the car disa
ppeared down the road.
Poorly, if honestly, handled, Methos mocked himself, and turned away from the window, letting the curtain drop.
Chapter 23
Methos stuffed his hands in his pockets, scowling dubiously up at the peeling letters on the research vessel’s prow. “Retribution?” he asked Ghean, as they waited for the gangplank to be lowered. “You couldn’t possibly have named it that deliberately.”
Ghean glanced up at the ship, and laughed. “It was donated by an oceanographer about fifteen years ago,” she explained. “He was going through an ugly divorce and got rid of the ship as a tax writeoff. His only stipluation was that it be renamed Retribution.”
Methos glanced back at the ship with a little more approval. “I like his sense of humour.”
“The University liked his donation. He didn’t even go to school there, just grew up in the city. We rebuilt it from the inside out, for this project. The equipment’s not quite as modern as I’d like, but funding doesn’t keep up with technology.”
“I’d ask if there have been funding problems, but I spent the last decade in research.”
Ghean shot him an amused look. “Have they gotten stingy?” she asked, deliberately not naming the Watchers aloud. “When I worked with them, they were remarkably generous.”
“You probably fluttered your eyelashes at the bureaucrats. I didn’t even recognize my own boss. Funding wasn’t a particular concern of his, not for somebody who insisted on chasing wild goose tales. Especially wild goose stories that had no verification over centuries at a time. Really, I don’t know how skeptics like that get into the organization.”
Michael Powers joined the pair as Methos finished speaking. “Dr. Pierson?” he asked uncertainly, looking up at Methos.
“The same,” Methos agreed, and offered his hand to the smaller man. “Dr. Powers, I presume.”
Powers looked slightly uncomfortable in the heat, his round face pink with exertion and sunburn. He also looked very slightly dismayed as Methos confirmed his identity. “You’re younger than I expected,” he said as he shook Methos’ hand.
Actually, I’m much, much older than you expect. “It’s a curse,” Methos said genially. “No one wants to take me seriously because my face doesn’t seem to want to age. I expect I’ll be grateful for that in a few decades. In the meantime — well, Mary told you I’m something of a recluse. An inability to look properly old and stuffy is part of why I am.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ghean lift a hand to cover a broad smile.
Powers smiled. “It’s a trait you share with Mary, then. I’ve known her six years and I swear she hasn’t aged a day.”
“Flatterer,” Ghean said, letting the smile come through now. “I’m just short, and exceptionally good at applying makeup. And you’re charmingly deluded.”
Michael shook his head, smiling again as he looked at Methos. “Mary said you two were old friends. Was she always this modest?”
“Oh no,” Methos said, grinning and deliberately taking a step back as Ghean lifted a hand threateningly. “It wasn’t that she thought the sun rose and set on her, mind you.” He warded off Ghean’s pretense of a blow with mock alarm, cringing back with a smile before straightening. She folded her arms, deliberately pouting, and Methos couldn’t help another smile. “The sun did rise and set on her,” he said, watching the tiny woman. “She just never knew how much light she brought with her.”
Ghean’s expression softened a little, and Methos looked away to catch Michael’s expression of amused delight. You’re getting sentimental, he told himself dryly. At least there’s anaudience to enjoy it. The tense exchange at the bed and breakfast seemed to have blown over. Methos was relieved; he’d handled it inelegantly, and had no desire to spend the next several days cooped up with an edgy Immortal.
Michael got his grin back under control, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to join us at Saturday’s dinner party. Granted, it was a fundraiser, but there were a number of ancient-world scholars there. I’m sure your input would have been fascinating. Mary said you weren’t feeling well after the long plane flight.”
Methos’ eyebrows went up a little. “A little of that, and a little terminal shyness, I think it was. I’ve never thought my social skills were my strongest point.” He looked at Ghean, one eyebrow lifting higher. Ghean shrugged, failing to look even slightly apologetic. Methos shook his head, half smiling. The conversation hadn’t blown over. Ghean’d deliberately failed to mention dinner in retaliation for his honesty. It made him something of a boor in the eyes of his new colleagues, and that, evidently, leveled the playing field. “Touche,” he mouthed at Ghean. The corner of her mouth twitched in acknowledgement.
“… specialize in ancient languages? Is that correct, Dr. Pierson?”
Methos blinked, turning his focus onto Powers again. “Adam,” he said. “We’re going to be working together, after all. No need for such formality. Myths and languages, yes. They tend to go hand in hand. It’s difficult to decipher old texts if you know nothing of the languages. I like to think of myself as a purist, translating as accurately as possible.”
“It’s a pity we’ll never know how accurate any of our translations are,” Michael said rather mournfully. “There are moments when I reel with the arrogance of trying to choose the best words for languages dead thousands of years.”
“Oh? Are you a translator, Dr. Powers?”
“Michael,” Powers corrected, “if I’m supposed to call you Adam. No,” he clarified hastily. “Not me. Man in general, I meant.”
Methos twisted a smile. “From the myths and legends we do have, Michael, I think it’s safe to say that arrogance is a failing mankind has had since long before history recorded it.”
Ghean turned to face Methos as he finished speaking, her dark eyes unreadable. “Indeed,” she said dryly. “You would know.” Barely a beat passed before she added, “From your work, I mean. The gangplank’s down. Shall we board?”
The ship managed to seem larger inside than it was on the outside, though it wasn’t small from the outside. Conspicuously abandoned by Michael on deck, Ghean showed Methos down to the tiny cabin that would be his for the duration of the explorations. “It’s a little isolated,” she said, navigating narrow passageways, “but I thought you might prefer that. Michael’s cabin is down at the other end, next to mine. He tried very hard to exchange yours for his.”
Methos shook his head, grinning a bit. “He and Duncan should talk,” he murmured, stepping into the cabin. He had no more than two inches of clearance above his head. The decor was compact, unattractive, and utterly functional. A hard-looking bed with a blanket turned at military corners filled one wall; a shelf above it with webbing across the opening allowed storage. Methos dropped his suitcase on the bed for the moment, turning to survey the rest of the room. A desk and a closet took up the other long wall; if he stood in the middle and stretched his arms, he could touch both walls.
“Small,” Ghean observed dryly, “but you weren’t expected.”
“Why do I have the feeling you insisted I would be content with standard quarters, despite having handed over an obscene amount of money to your excavation fund?”
Ghean flashed a smile. “Because it wouldn’t make sense to donate all that money and then use it to fix up a room so you could live in indulgent comfort while joining us on the explorations.”
Methos looked down at her. “Of course,” he agreed. “I’ve certainly lived in worse.”
“Besides.” Ghean’s smile was abruptly underscored by a veneer of steel. “It’s my party, and I don’t want anyone to forget that. Including you.”
For a moment Methos was captivated by the zeal in her eyes. Memory confused the bright determination with the centuries-gone excitement of a young woman returning home, of a wedding day, of a lifetime with her beloved. He smiled, ducking his head a little and lifting a hand towards her cheek, intending to kiss her. Only after the motion was started did he check th
e impulse, flicking an ironic salute rather than touch her face. “Aye, aye, ma’am,” he said solemnly.
Ghean dismissed the salute entirely. “There are reports in the conference room, or what we call the conference room, anyway. It’s actually the mess hall. You might want to look at them. They detail what we’ve found so far. You’ll need the information so you don’t overstep the limits of our current knowledge.”
Methos nodded. Leaving his coat behind, he followed Ghean through the narrow halls to the mess hall. As she opened the door, he laughed. “Where do you actually eat?”
There wasn’t a flat surface in the room, including the floor, that wasn’t stacked with papers, files, or maps. Some piles were more precariously balanced than others, usually on chairs, suggesting the material had been moved hurriedly for ease in sitting or studying another piece of data. Florsecent light glared down on the papers, reflecting brilliantly off grey walls. Without the mass of paperwork, the room would be painfully dull. With it, Methos had to squint briefly while his eyes adjusted to the peculiar light level.
“Usually frantically running down hallways. Mealtime seems to signal either disaster or discovery, around here.” Ghean pushed aside half a dozen reports, digging through a pile to find what she wanted. “This,” she said, laying out an inch-thick pamphlet on the table, “and this, and this.” She planted two more texts, of increasing thickness, on top of the first.
“Geologic history of the Mediterranean,” she said, tapping the top one, then bumping it aside half an inch to prod the second. “A history of the project, and,” she knocked the third file into view, “a location record and theories on use of some of the artifacts we’ve found. Some of them are painfully wrong. Worse than watching floodlights ghosting over buildings I used to visit is hearing the wildly inaccurate hypotheses the other archaeologists are coming up with. Don’t you want to shake them and yell until they listen, sometimes?”
“I tend to bury that impulse in my own best self-interest,” Methos said, “but there are moments, yes. These days, I go rant at MacLeod when a particularly disasterous interpretation makes the news.” He frowned at the stack Ghean had set aside for him. “Actually, that’s how I ended up here. I was going to poke fun at the poor fool who thought he’d found Atlantis.” He looked up at Ghean, expression wry. “Goodness, wasn’t I surprised.”
