Tonight, they ail belonged to John.
He leaned on the railing around the Hundred Years' Warriors, admiring the narrow, tapering shape of the French knight's blade. John recalled the curator saying that the sword was the only real piece in the display, the only omission in the museum's labeling. It certainly looked real enough to slash unarmored men and thrust its diamond-shaped point through any gaps in a foe's armored protection, John imagined himself in the armor. He had survived the English arrow storm, and his horse, half mad with wounds and excitement, now reared and plunged among the scrambling English. They feared his good Bordeaux steel, these English dogs. As they should. John raised his blade high, ready for another slash.
A noise, half heard, made him spin around, reaching for his flashlight. He turned on the beam and sent it searching through the alcoves. The light played across glass cases, past wall-mounted weapons, and over suits of armor standing tall, proud, and motionless. The shadows of the armorer's shop display parted, but nothing moved among the anvils, tools, and half-finished pieces.
He heard the sound again, a soft, furtive shuffling. This time it came from his left, toward the new addition that housed traveling exhibitions. His light fell across the gallery sign: "Romano-Brithonic Warriors of the Dark Ages." There were a lot of rare pieces in there, many of which had never left England before. If John had been a thief, he would have considered it a target. From where he stood, his flashlight showed nothing of the gallery itself.
He thought about heading back to the watch station and calling the police, but he'd look awfully foolish if it was a false alarm. Checking out strange noises was part of his job. Cautiously he moved toward the gallery.
What if there really was someone there? What would he do about it? He couldn't hold a thief at gunpoint; he wasn't armed. He tried to convince himself that no one would be there, that it was just a random noise. Maybe it was a rat. Old buildings had rats, didn't they? Old buildings made all sorts of strange noises, too, didn't they?
From the doorway, he swept the flashlight beam around the gallery. The room was less crowded than the rest of the museum.
The walls were white and the carpet cream, a strong contrast to the dark wood-framed cases and the darker relics within them. The cases around the walls held minor artifacts and interactive displays covering the history of the time, detailing the various archaeological digs that had resulted in the exhibit, and even one covering legends associated with the countryside from which the finds had come. But the important stuff had pride of place in a large central case.
That case was set up like a grave mound for a warrior—a prince or king, from the quality and quantity of the grave goods laid around him on the bier. An armored form lay upon a carefully reconstructed cloak of handwoven cloth, rich with embroidery. The cloth itself was a minor, if modern, treasure. But the real treasures were the armor and weapons. The scraps of ancient armor that had survived were pieced together, missing parts reconstructed in plastic, and adorned blank-faced mannequins. The gold decoration of the real pieces glinted tawnily in the light. Four of the armored mannequins stood around the bier, one in each corner of the case, martial mourners for their dead mannequin king.
The five figures represented the best parts of three burial finds and the most complete martial suites yet recovered from post-Roman Britain. Each was more complete than the famed Sutton Hoo find, of which a few minor pieces resided in a case on the far wall. Each item was priceless; together their worth was even more priceless, if such a thing made sense.
To John's relief, nothing looked amiss. There were no thieves cutting their way into cases, no burglars tucking helmets under their arms.
The noise must have been a rat; Jenny had told him that the museum had been plagued with them recently. They were supposedly smart rats, too. So far all the traps had come up empty—sometimes sprung, but always empty. The curator had only just given permission for exterminators to be called in. Certainly the rats were smart enough to avoid John's light.
Seeing nothing amiss, he cut off the beam and walked back to the door to the central stairwell. Deciding against the antique elevator, he took the stairs that wound around the shaft. The building's outer wall here was glass and offered a view of the city and the hills beyond. The valley sparkled in the clear night like a sky gone mad with stars. The real sky might once have had so many lights, before man's cities stole away the night's natural brilliance, but there was little of it to be seen now. Still, Worcester wasn't as bad as some places. He couldn't recall having seen a single star on his last trip to Boston.
Thinking that simpler times had to have been pleasanter, he reached the landing and opened the door to the balcony galleries. The older stuff was arrayed here. He turned right toward the oldest. Green, half-corroded Greek helmets whispered to him of the glory of god-ridden heroes and the broad-brimmed gladiator's helmet echoed the roar of the crowds cheering the skill of the Thracian who had proudly worn the highly decorated piece. He ran his hand along the case that held the Roman horse armor from Dura Europa. He pictured the iron legions marching dusty roads on their way to keeping the Pax Romanum.
A noise from the great hall below drew him out of his imaginings. He crossed between cases dedicated to the hunt. I le leaned over the railing and played his flashlight beam across the floor. The light cast strange shadows, eerie, jagged shapes. Something skittered away in the dark, scampering ahead of his light and disappearing behind the tournament display.
A rat. It had to be.
But were rats so big? From the glimpse he had caught, the thing had looked as big as a cat. It was creepy to think about animals sneaking around just out of sight. Furry wild things with beady eyes could be watching him from the shadows, lie felt creeped out. There weren't any rats in the rezcoms. The cleaning 'bots would take care of them. This old hulk of a building wasn't fitted for cleaning 'bots. Historic register and all that.
The exhibits didn't seem so friendly anymore. With so many nooks and crannies, rats could be anywhere, just waiting to spring out. He headed back to the watch room, where there were lights. Opening the door, he surprised something that fell, or jumped, from the desk with a thump. By the time he got around the desk to see what it was, it was gone. He was left with what the rat had left behind.
Crumbs of bread, shards of plastic wrap, bits of paper, scraps of turkey roll, and shreds of lettuce littered the desktop. His lunch bag had been mauled, the sack ripped to pieces and the contents spread around the desk. His can of soda, its Chilseal™ gnawed, lay on the floor. No place in the museum was safe from the marauding beasts.
Cursing the little monsters, he picked up the dented can and tossed it into the recycle bin, then started scraping the desktop mess into a trash can. AH the while, he hoped the exterminators would be successful.
An all-nighter without fuel was difficult to contemplate. The cafeteria was closed, but there were vending machines in the staff room, although they didn't offer much that was humanly edible. He tossed the last of the shredded bag and the scattered remains of his mother's handiwork. These rats deserved to die. It was not as though the species was endangered or something. He thought about going out and hunting them down himself. He couldn't get at any of the crossbows, all safely locked in their cases, but there were some demonstration swords in the closet with the gear for the outreach program. He could chase the rats down and slice off their heads. But then he'd have to deal with their bodies. And the damned things would probably bleed on some of the armor and he'd get in trouble with the curator. He gave the plan up as a bad one.
At least they hadn't messed up his reader. He called up the novels and selected R Norman Carter's The Heirs of Prester John. He'd have more than enough time to finish it before his relief showed up at two. He settled in.
By eleven, his stomach was complaining regularly enough that he visited the machines in the staff room, settling on the Cheese Winks™ as the most nourishing and least likely to have been spoiled by a couple of centuri
es inside the machine. Occasionally he heard some of the rats skittering about on their nocturnal wanderings. Hunting for food, whatever it was they ate when they weren't depriving him of his lunch. Most of them probably lived on scraps from the cafeteria; they surely couldn't survive on things like Cheese Winks.
Fortified by his fine repast, he felt a little foolish about his reaction to the rats. Why should he let them rob him of the pleasure of having the armor all to himself? They were just animals, doing their animal thing, and their day was coming, along with the exterminator.
His own days might be numbered, at least as far as the museum was concerned. He might never have another opportunity to wander the museum like this. Would he let a few rodents, who now that he thought about it were acting more scared of him than he of them, keep him from enjoying himself?
No. He wouldn't. He had more right to the galleries than they did. He would go on with his private tour.
He considered turning on the lights from the watch station, but that would mean the rats had won, creeping him out. It would also mean he'd have to explain to Mrs. Bartholomew why he had burned the power. Lights or no lights, he was going. He had the flashlight, and he'd always been able to get around in the dark. He didn't need the lights.
With some vague idea of sneaking up on the rats, he took the stairs. Before he reached the landing, he could hear them scampering about. No wonder, the door to the great hall was open. Hadn't he closed it? He felt sure he had; but he must not have, because rats couldn't open doors.
He stood by the door and listened. There seemed to be an almost continuous shuffling of padded feet. Sometimes they squeaked, but not often. There were either a lot of them, or a few of them who were very busy. But why were they hanging out in the galleries? Armor certainly wouldn't be to their taste, but the leather straps on the suits might offer some sustenance. That was probably why the curator finally decided to do something about them. That, or the fear that one would pop up during the day and scare some of the visiting schoolchildren—or, more likely, one of their teachers. Bad for public relations.
A sharp rap, like something hitting glass, echoed from the south end of the hall. One of the damned rats must have run into one of the cases. He knew birds did that sort of thing; maybe rats did too. He didn't think they could break into the cases, and he hadn't heard the tinkle of shattered glass, but he thought he ought to check it out.
None of the cases in the galleries off the main floor were damaged. John headed for the special-exhibit gallery.
Standing at the door, he pointed his flashlight. The beam reflected in an unexpected place. With a shock he realized he was looking at the open door of the central exhibit case. The reflections made it hard to see, but he thought he counted five standing human shapes in the case. There should have been only four.
One of them moved and John turned his beam on it, expecting to see a dark-clad thief. Instead, the light revealed a short, willowy woman dressed in jeans and a tattered T-shirt. Back to him and rocking back and forth on her heels, she seemed oblivious to his presence and to the harsh glare of the flashlight beam.
Behind him something skittered and he spun in reflex. His flashlight's beam fell on a spindly scarecrow figure barely two feet tall. The thing crouched, squinting against the light. He stared at it and it stared back with slitted eyes beneath a shielding paw, hissing and baring sharp, yellowed teeth.
"Pay it no mind," the woman said. "They always gather near a working."
John turned his head at her words, then heard the thing move. He snapped his head back around, but it was gone. Tiny feet scampered in the darkness to his left. And to his right.
There was more than one of them!
Were they dangerous? He hoped not. If these things were what he had been hearing all night, there were a lot of them.
"What the hell are those things?"
"Boggles. Harmless, really."
One of the things she called a boggle peered around the case at John. Another dropped to the floor from the top of the case. The two of them grinned at him. Evilly. Anything with that many teeth had to grin evilly.
John forced himself to take his eyes off the boggles and check his combox. According to the black box, the security system was still working, despite its failure to note the entry and presence of this woman. How had she managed that?
"Who are you? How'd you get in here?"
"Sideways."
"There is no side door."
"Whatever." She shushed at him. "Now be quiet. I have to get to work now."
Work? Doing what? Why was he asking himself instead of her?
John watched her dig into a knapsack and pull out a jar. She unscrewed the lid and poured something into her hand. Putting the jar down, she began to scatter the stuff like a Sumo wrestler tossing the ceremonial rice before a bout. The stuff sparkled like carnival glitter. As she turned within the beam of his flashlight, he finally got a good look at her face; it was a face he'd seen before—twice—in pictures.
This was the woman both Bennett and the FBI were looking for. John was confused. She wasn't acting like a thief caught in the act, or a fugitive. Just what was she? Whoever she was, she wasn't supposed to be here, and whatever she was doing, she probably wasn't supposed to be doing. But what was he going to do about it? And why wasn't the alarm going off? The alarm should be going off.
"Turn the light off, please," she said. "It's distracting."
He did as she asked, feeling satisfaction that he had pleased her.
What business did he have pleasing her?
Sure, she was pretty, beautiful even; but she wasn't supposed to be here. God only knew what she was doing to the exhibit. So why wasn't he doing anything about her?
One of the boggles scampered up to him and sat at his feet. It watched the woman. John stared down at it, dumbfounded.
The woman started speaking in a low monotone. John didn't understand her words; she wasn't speaking English or Japanese. It sounded a little like Spanish, but only a little.
Moving about within the display, she touched several of the artifacts, crooning to each. Each object she touched began to glow with a blue light.
John blinked. All he could think of was that she shouldn't have been touching the artifacts without wearing white cotton gloves. He began to feel a pressure in his head as though he were in a rapidly rising elevator car. Cool air drifted across his skin. Was that frost forming on the glass of the case?
The boggle at his feet was joined by two more. They chit-tered together for a moment, then quieted.
The pale blue nimbus limning the artifacts strengthened, filling the display with azure light. Each of the objects the woman had touched shone now. The dead king's belt, the greave on one of his mourners, and the body armor and helmet of another were all glimmering brightly, but the crown enfolded in the king's hands gleamed more brightly still.
It was a hell of a show. Kind of like being in a virtual reality simulation, but the effects were better. Realer. But then, this wasn't a simulator, this was real. Wasn't it? If it was, and all of his senses told him that it was, this woman was working magic. Real magic.
John's throat was dry.
Real magic.
The light swelled, filled the entire gallery. A stronger light of almost painful intensity appeared as a pinpoint in the air above the bier. It grew, rainbow colors rippling along its edges, into a sphere the size of a basketball. With a flash that forced John's eyes shut, it expanded. When he could see again, the globe of light was less bright but it had a diameter large enough for John to walk through.
The woman giggled. "Great and small, need them all."
A figure appeared within the flickering light, slowly resolving to clarity like a video fade-in. The image was man-shaped. His feet almost touched the surface of the bier and the top of the case intersected his chest.
As the resolution of the image improved, John could see that the man was naked. He had broad shoulders and was thick-bodied, his ski
n tracked with white scars. His hair fell to his shoulders and he wore a full beard. Both hair and beard were dirty blond and shot with gray. His eyes were closed, but his expression was troubled.
The man hung suspended within the cloud of light, floating in the air. He might have been lying on a bed, save that he was vertical. The pose was odd, in a way more unnerving than the fact that the man was suspended without any visible support.
The woman faced the man and spoke. Her words were still incomprehensible to John, but he recognized her tone as one of entreaty. Her gestures were those one would use to call a small child.
The man floated within the glowing ball, drifting a little closer, then a little farther away. The woman spoke faster. Silent sparks jetted out from the floating man, leaping out to ground against the metal fittings of the case and the reproduction weapons within it. One jumped to the forgotten flashlight in John's hand, and he dropped it.
The woman stood serenely within this electrical micro-storm. Her words became a chant and the floating man drifted free of the case. Slowly, he settled toward the floor. He was looking more solid now. More real, somehow.
The woman held out a hand toward him.
"Come, lord," she said. "Waken. 'Tis time."
CHAPTER
9
The man started to collapse as soon as his bare foot touched the stone floor, crumpling bonelessly toward the paving flags. His obvious helplessness and need broke through the awe and fear that had paralyzed John. Rushing forward, he caught the man before his head struck the stone. The limp body was a deadweight, too much for John's strength, and pulled him off balance. They both landed sprawling on the floor.
Robert Charrette - Arthur 01 - A Prince Among Men Page 10
