# The Apocalypse Script

### Book 1 of the Nisirtu

## Samuel Fort

#### Nisirtu Publishing
The Apocalypse Script

Book 1 of _The Nisirtu_

* * *

By Samuel Fort at Smashwords

* * *

_Redux_

Copyright 2019

* * *

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Created with Vellum

# Also by Samuel Fort

The Ardoon King

(Sequel to the Apocalypse Script)

* * *

Cult of the Great Eleven

Weird Wires

Weird Wires 2

Creepy Nebraska

The Mysterious Miss Empress

Eldritch Puzzles of Unspeakable Madness
Dedicated to the scribes that share secrets, casting them as fiction.

### Contents

September 21

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

September 22

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

September 23

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

September 24

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

September 25

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

September 26

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

September 27

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

September 28 & 29

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Epilogue

Book 2 Available Now!

Glossary of Terms - Contains Spoilers!

# September 21

> "My son, why do you hide your face so anxiously?"
> 
> "Father, do you not see the Elf king? The Elf king with crown and tail?"
> 
> "My son, it's a wisp of fog."
> 
> * * *
> 
> \- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, _Der Erlkönig (1782)_

# Prologue

"He'll be here in an hour, Scriptus," said the woman, her phone to her ear. "Is everything in place?"

The voice that replied was ancient and raspy. "Yes, Lilitu. You doubt me after all these years?"

"No. Of course not. I'm just nervous. This is the most difficult part of the script. I worry about the unexpected. Are you sure he won't refuse? What shall we do if-"

"He will not refuse. I've run the script out seven degrees and all parallel scripts by another four. He's in a channel without branches. He can only go where I've destined him to go."

The woman tugged at her lower lip. "What of Fiela?"

"Her plane landed this morning. I imagine she's grumpy. She had to fly in the cargo bin."

"Where is she, then?"

"Nearby, I'm sure. She'll eavesdrop on your conversation and then follow the Ardoon when he leaves. After that, her curiosity will compel her to approach him. My charts indicate that she will bond more tightly with the man if she meets him alone, as opposed to being introduced to him by you."

"She isn't armed, I hope."

"No. She's in stealth mode. No guns, no knives." There was a pause. "Piano wire, perhaps..."

"Is she being pursued?"

"Yes. She was identified at the airport by a rebel informant. He'll follow her even as she follows your guest. But the Maqtu have no assassins in the area and will be compelled to use their slaves against her."

The woman smiled. "Woe to the slaves."

"Woe to _all_ slaves," countered the old man.

"A price must be paid if the world is to be reborn."

"It is an exceedingly high price."

The woman shrugged. "Is it, though? Humanity is bankrupt. In order to start again, it must forfeit what it has. Out with the old, in with the new. It is a momentary sacrifice for a greater good."

"Momentary?"

"You know what I mean."

"As you say. I need to go, Lilitu. I've got calculations to do and you need to prepare for your guest."

"Wish me luck?"

"No, never luck. I wish you a _successful script. "_

"Even better," replied the woman, ending the call.

She tapped the phone lightly against her chest, thinking about the man who would soon appear at her door. He had no idea how much his world was about to change.

His world - and everyone else's.

# 1

A young man in a black silk suit with expensive hair opened the ornately carved double doors. "May I help you?"

The man on the other side handed him a business card saying, "My name is Ben Mitchell. Miss Stratton is expecting me."

The servant carefully examined both the card and the man who proffered it. The visitor was unusually tall, about six and a half feet in height, and was dressed in black slacks, an inexpensive white shirt open at the collar, and an old wool blazer that strained to contain his broad shoulders. His hair was groomed to something approaching military standards and his brown eyes were alert.

The servant nodded, recognizing the visitor as the man in the photograph his employer had shown him the day before.

"Yes, sir," said the servant, stepping aside. "Miss Stratton is in the music room. Please follow me."

He led the newcomer down a long corridor adorned with ancient but carefully maintained Persian tapestries and stopped at the doorway of a spacious, round room. The room's walls were Zebrawood, the floor checkered marble, and the ceiling a dome perforated by a skylight that admitted a copious amount of light. In the middle of the space was a grand piano, a harp, and a dazzlingly beautiful woman playing a violin, her eyes closed in concentration.

"My name is Mr. Fetch," the servant whispered to the guest. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you, and please don't disturb Miss Stratton. I'll wait for her to finish."

"As you wish, sir," replied the servant, promptly exiting the room.

_Mr. Fetch? _Ben had almost laughed but caught himself when he saw that the servant hadn't so much as cracked a smile. The guest wondered if there was a Mr. Driver, a Miss Gardner and a Mr. Weedwacker wandering the estate.

He turned his attention to the woman. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, taller than average, and perfectly proportioned. She wore a knee-length red silk dress and two strings of pearls. Her blond hair was elaborately coifed with a jade pin.

The composition she was playing was complex, and she was wholly absorbed in the manipulation of the violin's strings. At some points, she attacked the strings while at others she caressed them. While Ben was hardly an expert in the field, he thought Lilian Stratton might be what some called a _virtuoso_.

When the last movement of the bow was complete, the room became eerily quiet, and the woman opened her eyes. They were a brilliant emerald green.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Mitchell. I apologize for not meeting you at the door."

"Not at all. What's the name of that piece?"

"Ernst's _Grand Caprice on Schubert's Der Erlkönig._ " __

"Der Erlkönig. The Elf king?"

She lowered the violin and smiled a million-dollar smile. "That's right. You speak German?"

"A little." He was trying to identify her accent, which was slight. It certainly wasn't German.

"It was inspired by one of Goethe's poems," she said. She retrieved a violin case from a nearby chair and began fiddling with the clasps. "In the poem, a man is riding through a gloomy forest cradling his young son in one arm. The child, who is facing the forest's edge, sees the king of the elves and his underlings watching him from the shadows. The elves call out to the boy, promising him games, flowers, and music if only he will abandon his father and join them."

She gently placed the violin in its case. "The son is terrified and warns his father that the elves are trying to take him, but the father sees nothing, of course. He tells his son the elves are mere wisps of fog, a figment of the boy's imagination."

"These do not sound like _Christmas_ elves."

"No, far from it. These are evil creatures that crawl up from the cracks of the earth. When the boy refuses to join them, they get angry and grab him. He wails, telling his father the elves are hurting him. Disturbed by his son's cries, the father spurs his horse to go faster, but to no avail. When he reaches his home, he discovers that his son has died in his arms."

"I see. The hallucinations were brought on by a fever."

The woman closed the case and perched it on a table behind the piano. "That's one interpretation," she said circumspectly. "Let's go to the patio, shall we? It's a dazzling morning, and we have important things to discuss."

The woman led him back into the corridor and ultimately through a set of French doors that opened onto a patio at the rear of the mansion that overlooked a garden. The patio, constructed of a pinkish terrazzo tile, was appropriately sized for the edifice adjacent to it. Around its oval perimeter were immaculately pruned plants of every kind in a blinding array of colors and shapes.

In the middle were a wrought-iron table, painted white, and four matching chairs. A silver tea and coffee service had been positioned next to a vase of tulips. Mr. Fetch appeared and seated Lilian Stratton before gently placing Ben's business card on the table next to her. The cool morning air was fragrant with the scent of gardenias, and invisible birds chirped in the distance.

Looking up, his hostess asked, "Coffee or tea, Mr. Mitchell?"

"Coffee, please. Black. And please, call me Ben."

As she filled the porcelain cup, she said, "Very well, Ben, and you may call me Lilian." Without raising her head, she said quietly, "Mr. Fetch, you'll please wait inside. I'll ring if I need you."

The servant bowed slightly and retreated. The woman handed Ben his coffee and then poured herself a cup of tea. Taking a sip, she picked up the business card that Mr. Fetch had placed on the table and began reading it aloud.

"Ben Mitchell, Ph.D., Epigraphist and Researcher, Ancient Languages and Writing Systems, Hittite, Sumerian, Akkadian, Cuneiform...well, the list goes on and on. I don't know what most of this means. I'm surprised you could fit it all on a business card."

He smiled. "Anything is possible with the right font."

She flipped the card over. "There's a phone number on the back of this. Do you need it back?"

Ben tried to mask his embarrassment. He had precisely one business card with him, which was the one he'd given his host. The number on the back belonged to a librarian whom Ben had no intention of calling but who had insisted he take her number.

"Ah, sorry. Um, no. You can keep it. Just...well, I'd suggest you not call that number. It's not mine."

"Duly noted," the woman said with the hint of a smile. She returned the card to the table.

Trying to recover from the humiliation, Ben said, "What can I do for you, Lilian?"

Meeting his eyes again, the woman said, "A close family friend by the name of Ridley, who has an estate in the mountains, has some stone tablets bearing inscriptions that he would like your assistance with. He says to tell you they are quite ancient and that this something of an emergency."

Ben swallowed his first sip of coffee before saying, "The translation of ancient tablets is rarely an emergency."

"And yet," the woman replied, "Ridley assures me that is the case. He is, you see, very elderly and is cataloging his estate in preparation for the inevitable. He believes the tablets are valuable and wants to ensure they end up in the right hands."

"They've never been examined before?"

"Not by an expert."

"Interesting. What can you tell me about them?"

In a banal tone, she replied, "Ridley says they contain the oldest human writing system ever discovered."

Ben coughed, cleared his throat. "Excuse me. That is...well, a rather spectacular claim, Lilian."

"Is it?" she asked, as if it meant nothing to her. Seemingly out of nowhere, his hostess produced a large manila envelope sealed with red wax, which she extended to him. There were odd imprints in the wax. Cuneiform, the man thought immediately, but then saw he was wrong. The characters weren't quite right.

"A few photographs," she explained.

Ben broke the seal with his fingers and peered into the envelope. There were about a dozen portrait-sized color photos inside. He withdrew one and placed it in his lap. It was of a black stone tablet, perhaps a foot square, inscribed with thousands of densely packed lines, swirls, and irregular shapes in a variety of colors. The individual inscriptions appeared only a millimeter or two in width. He couldn't determine from the photographs what gave them their colors.

"Where were the tablets found?" he asked, placing a pair of spectacles on his nose before scanning the next image.

Lilian shrugged. "You'd need to ask Ridley."

"Uh-huh," replied the researcher. After taking a few minutes to review the rest of the photos, he said, "To be frank, Lilian, I have some concerns, foremost among them being the physical properties of the inscriptions. My impression is that they are too intricate to be ancient. Also, the engravings might be decorative or ceremonial glyphs. There are no distinguishable graphemes. I'm not sure why your friend Ridley believes the inscriptions constitute a writing system. I'll need to study these photos and do some research before agreeing to take the job."

Lilian shook her head. "You won't find anything like them in your reference books, Ben."

He removed the spectacles and squinted. "Why do you say that?"

"All tablets of this variety are in the possession of Ridley. There are no others, I can assure you, and only his closest friends know of their existence - at least, until now. Don't you think a man in your field would have seen similar tablets already if they were in the public domain?"

"Not necessarily. I deal in languages and writing systems. It's possible that there are artifacts with similar markings that I haven't seen simply because the engravings were classified as decorative or ritualistic and have never been brought to the attention of someone in my field."

"I see," the woman said, looking mildly disappointed.

"Don't get me wrong," he added, seeing a potential job slipping away. "I am interested ." He thought for a moment. "Perhaps you'd let me keep these photos? I've got some books I'd like to consult. It would only take a few hours. Once I've got a better feel for what we're dealing with, I'll call you."

"When?"

"Tonight, if you like. Then, if you still want to hire me, we can discuss my fee."

The woman considered this and nodded. "Very well. Ask Mr. Fetch for one of my cards. But I must have your decision tonight, Ben. Time is of the essence."

"Tonight, then," he said, and rose.

# 2

When he returned to his tiny, cluttered office, Ben withdrew a beer from the mini-fridge and plopped down in front of his computer. He was in a state of shock. He might have a client. A rich, beautiful, and apparently somewhat desperate client.

Surely that was the best kind.

Ben looked over his computer at a photograph on the far wall. It was a torso shot of a much younger version of himself in a Marine dress blue jacket. He'd just graduated from the Defense Language Institute and had been given the MOS 2671, Cryptologic Linguist - Middle East, Pashtu. His younger self's expression was stern and daring. It was the expression of a warrior ready for combat. Eager for it, even.

He got it, in Afghanistan, only a few months later, but his adventure hadn't lasted long.

He still vividly remembered the junky white Toyota, riding low to the ground, zipping toward his convoy from a side street, just outside of Kandahar. He remembered barking a warning, too late. The bomb in the car detonated between the second and third vehicles, transforming them into modern art.

Everything after that was a blur. Ben had a vague recollection of knifing through his seatbelt and kicking the door above him open, his ears ringing and blood dripping into his eyes from his forehead. Some angry villagers had appeared and started pulling him from the truck. He had yelled at them and lashed out with his knife, slicing two of his assailants. The mob dropped and started brutally kicking him. His rifle was still in the Suburban, and he didn't carry a pistol. His only defense was his knife, which he began to swing and thrust angrily.

As the surviving security team members started firing warning shots at the mob, one of Ben's attackers got behind him and slammed a piece of pipe into the base of his neck. The Marine blacked out. When he regained consciousness minutes later, he saw a severed hand, minus a pinky, lying a few inches from his face in a pool of oil.

A mangy brown and black dog appeared from out of nowhere and scooped the remains up in his mouth. The dog glared at Ben menacingly, Eddie's hand in its mouth, and the Marine had screamed, and continued screaming, in pain and grief, until a member of the security detail from the trailing vehicle appeared and shot the dog and then pummeled the animal's corpse until it was a lump of meat.

That had made Ben laugh, and the problem was he hadn't stopped laughing for a long time, or crying, and everyone agreed he was pretty messed up and should be given a one-way ticket back to the States.

Four months later, the medical and psychological evaluations and the paperwork completed, Ben, honorably discharged, sat in a Denver motel watching a commercial about feminine hygiene products with a strawberry milkshake in one hand and a remote in the other.

His VA counselor had encouraged him to find a new "mission." Toward that end, the former Marine had decided to finally tap his college fund to pursue degrees in Near East Languages and Cuneiform studies. While his choice of majors would have seemed peculiar to most, especially for a former 'jarhead,' it was a no-brainer to Ben. He had always been interested in history, was familiar with the Middle East and Southwest Asia, had an aptitude for languages, and had been trained to break codes. What other fields could make better use of his interests, talents, and experience?

The former linguist immersed himself in the study Assyriology, Hittitology, and Sumerology, but fostered a special passion for undeciphered writing systems, such as Proto-Elamite. He found that the decipherment of esoteric writing systems of extinct languages was very much like breaking military or diplomatic codes of living languages, something the former cryptologic linguist found instinctively appealing. He was the top student in every class he took.

After getting his doctorate, Ben had accepted a teaching position at a midwestern university. It wasn't long, though, before the walls there began to close in on him.

He moved to Denver, set up a small downtown office and, at some cost, promoted his research talents to museums, antique collectors, and historians. But he soon learned the market for freelance ancient language experts was not exactly red hot.

It was, in fact, almost non-existent. Freelance? What the hell had he been thinking?

Wealthy collectors paid well, but they were few and far between. Museums provided slightly steadier work, but they were hamstrung by budget cuts and declining attendance, which meant they paid little and their checks sometimes arrived months after the work was completed.

Ben had made several inquiries with the Discovery, History, and Smithsonian channels, promoting his skills and offering his services as a commentator or researcher. The crickets that responded were deafening. He tried to set up a website and a YouTube channel but soon found that the feeble number of disinterested visitors or viewers didn't merit the time needed to maintain either. He'd never shut them down, which meant they now stood as virtual memorials to yet another of his failed endeavors. They were as dormant as his laughably puny savings account.

The bills were piling up, and he needed money. Badly. Despite what he had told Lillian Stratton, there was _no_ chance that he would refuse the assignment she had offered him. He was desperate.

He'd do whatever it took to keep the lights on for another month.

# 3

Ben scanned his many bookshelves, decided upon four reference books, and dumped them into his leather satchel. Placing the Stratton photographs in a side pocket, he swung the strap over one shoulder and went to his car. He turned on his radio and guided his ancient Audi onto the street.

As he approached a stoplight that was turning red, the speakers blared:

> _Public health officials today announced that an estimated fourteen thousand people have died from Cage's disease in the city of New York in just the past week. This is a significant setback for Government officials who have implemented a variety of measures to contain the virus, to include health-screening checkpoints at the nation's major airports. The disease, which first appeared in Los Angeles just five months ago, has so far claimed the lives of almost a quarter of million people in the United States alone._

> _The situation is even worse in parts of Europe, Russia, and Asia, where deaths are believed to be in the tens of millions, though official numbers put the total much lower. Cases have now also been reported in Australia and New Zealand, once thought of as safe-havens from the pandemic. Experts at the Centers for Disease Control has been unsuccessful in identifying the source of the pathosis, though at least one expert suggests that the pathogen agent is a 'rapid-acting prion protein.'_
> 
> _Symptoms of Cage's disease include rapid-onset dementia, changes in personality, paranoia, speech impairment, and loss of muscle control. Unofficial figures show the mortality rate of Cage's disease to be ninety-seven percent. Death usually occurs within five weeks of the first symptoms occurring._

Turning right would take the researcher to his favorite sports bar, but he wasn't really in the mood for chicken wings and a big screen. Could he watch television knowing the Stratton photographs were in his satchel begging for his attention?

_Several cities and towns along I-15 and I-40 in Utah and Arizona have erected physical barriers at exit ramps to prevent Interstate travelers from entering their towns. Officials emphasize that such acts are unnecessary, ineffective, and illegal. U.S. health officials recommend that Americans not travel unless it is absolutely necessary to do so. Other precautions..._

No. He didn't have money for chicken wings, or beer, or even a tip. He had just been offered a job that would _pay_ him money. Perhaps _significant_ money. The light changed to green, and he drove forward only to be stopped at another red light fifty yards further down the road.

> _...reports a failed U.S. drone strike on a suspected Iranian missile launch site. Debris from the drone, which the Iranians claim was shot down using sophisticated anti-aircraft weaponry developed in coordination with-_

Ben punched the radio's power button. Why did he bother with the news anymore? It was terrible yesterday, worse today, and would be worse yet tomorrow. Cage's disease had made much of the world's population afraid to leave their homes, especially since video of victims started appearing on the internet; videos of their lifeless eyes and spasmodic bodies and gruesome zombie-like appearances. To date, Denver had been spared, but the researcher knew it was only a matter of time before Cage's arrived at the city's outskirts.

The Iranians reportedly had nuclear-tipped intermediate-range missiles. The U.S. and China were playing a game of brinkmanship in the Pacific. Russia had gobbled up yet another of the former Soviet-bloc nations. The stock market was gyrating wildly, up and down ten percent daily, with three new mysterious "flash crashes" in the past month. Some kind of blight had struck the wheat and corn fields everywhere on the planet, sending the price of groceries sky high, at least if you wanted anything made of or fed wheat or corn - which was just about everything. Food riots had erupted in Africa, Asia, and South America.

The world was going to hell, no doubt about it.

The light finally turned green. Ben tapped the accelerator and turned left. To improve his mood, he thought about Lilian Stratton. She was wealthy, beautiful and musically gifted. A handsome man, Ben had no problem finding companionship, but he had yet to find an emotional match. He wondered if what had happened in Afghanistan had made such a match impossible. He wondered, too, what type of men Lilian Stratton dated.

The type that owned jets, he decided, and played polo, and went on weekend outings to Greek islands.

Ben drove to a small local library that was, thanks to the internet, almost always deserted, thus offering its few guests large tables, spacious seating, and plenty of quiet. There, Ben withdrew from his satchel an aging, leather-bound book with several loose yellowing pages. The faded gold title read: _Ancient Alphabets and Hieroglyphic Characters Explained, by, in the Arabic Language, Ahmad Bin Abubekr Bin Wahshih and, in the English Language, Joseph Hammer, Secretary to the Imperial Legation at Constantinople. London. 1806._

He flipped to a bookmarked page and read,

> _...another old unknown alphabet (see orig. p. 134). This the Curds falsely pretend to be the alphabet, in which the Binushad and Massi Surali composed all their scientific and mechanical works. We are ignorant to what alphabet these letters belong, as we never could make out the language which they express; but I saw at Bagdad, thirty-three inscriptions writing in this alphabet..._

Ben studied the characters, but only large quantities of imagination and alcohol would allow him to see any similarities between them and what was shown in the photographs. Finding the English translation lacking he switched to the Arabic text, but while more correct, it did not change the fact that the writing system in the photographs did not correspond to that shown in the book.

Neither did he find satisfaction in his comparison to the characters shown in _An Illustrated Account of the Inscriptions of the Near East_ , published in 1936, or _A Study of Cryptolanguages_ , published in 2004, or _The Library of Lost Tongues_ , published in 1924.

Ben scratched his chin.

This was getting interesting.

# 4

Ben remained in the library until the sun was low in the sky and then drove to a nearby coffee shop. Ordering a sandwich, water, and coffee, he moved to a corner booth with a good view of the mountains. He had just pulled out the photographs to renew his studies when he heard a young woman's voice.

"Sir?"

He looked up. Next to him was a girl with long red hair, a ribbon pinned to one side. She wore heavy makeup, to include purplish lipstick and Cimmerian mascara around her unusual violet eyes. He'd never seen eyes like them and assumed she was wearing colored contact lenses.

"Yes?" Ben replied, sliding the photographs to one side. He noticed her eyeing them as he did so.

She said, "My name is Fiela," pronouncing the word _Fee-yel-uh_ , with an accent on the middle syllable. "Lilian sent me. Can I sit down?"

"Please." He made a gesture with his hand toward the opposite bench.

The stranger sat. She was dressed in a style he thought of as 'punk' - a too-big leather jacket adorned with metal studs draped over a carefully ripped white tee-shirt with a lithograph of some rock band of which he'd never heard. There were garish rings on every finger.

She said, "Lilian told me to tell you she needs an answer sooner than she expected. She said you were going to call her about a job, but that things are moving fast."

"What _things?_ Also, how did you know where to find me?"

The girl looked confused by the questions. Leaning forward, she whispered, " _Attis Nisirtu?_ "

Ben wondered what language the girl was speaking. Gears turned rapidly in the researcher's brain. __ The answer, when it came to him, was the last he'd expected: _Akkadian._ It was an ancient language - perhaps the _most_ ancient. It hadn't been spoken for several thousand years.

His brain didn't wait for permission to proceed. It moved immediately to the word she'd pronounced as _Ni-sir-too_ , with an accent on the second syllable.

That was...what? _Hidden something_ , right? His best guess was that she had asked him, "Are you a hidden one?"

But why would she ask him that? Why in the deadest of all the dead languages? Was she testing him, maybe?

He said, "I'm a researcher. Are you a student?"

The girl looked even more confused. She studied him as if he were a newly discovered life form. She said, "No. I was homeschooled."

"In ancient languages?"

"What?"

In the distance, a barista announced that a caffe' latte was ready for pickup.

Ben tried again. "How did Lilian know where to find me?"

"I don't know. I just got back from Europe an hour ago. She called me ten minutes after my plane touched down and gave me this address. We didn't talk much."

"Couldn't she have texted or called me?"

Fiela looked away and began picking at a hangnail. "I guess. But she didn't." She met his eyes for the briefest of seconds. "She said she wanted me to meet you, in person. I don't know why."

"Where's your luggage?"

"I travel light," the girl said, quickly eyeing Ben's sandwich before pretending an interest in the cars lined up at the drive-thru.

Seeing this, Ben said, "I'm going to grab another bottle of water. Want one? Or something to eat, maybe?"

Fiela drew an invisible figure on the table with a finger. "I don't have any money."

Welcome to my world, thought Ben. "I'm buying. What would you like?"

At last, the girl looked at him again. "Truly?"

_Truly?_

"Sure. What do you want?"

"A water would be good. Maybe a sandwich?"

"No problem," Ben said, wondering how much money was left in his wallet. It wasn't much. Seven bucks, maybe. Was that enough?

Ben fell in line in at the counter. After studying the illuminated menu and doing some basic math, he withdrew Lilian's business card and dialed her number.

The woman answered after only one ring. "Ben?"

"Yes. Hey-"

"Don't say anything. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"What? You don't even know-"

"Ben, please trust me. I'll explain later."

"Okay, listen-" but she was gone.

Ben stared at his phone. This was getting weird.

He returned to the table with the spoils of his voyage. He gave the sandwich and water to the girl.

"Thank you," Fiela said. She attacked the sandwich as if she hadn't eaten all day.

"No problem."

Her mouth full, the girl said, "Why did Lilian give you those photos? The ones you were looking at when I got here?"

"She has some questions about them."

"What questions?"

"I don't think I can discuss that with you, Fiela. Not until I can establish your relationship with Lilian."

She took a gulp of water. "We grew up together."

"Oh? Are you sisters?"

"In a way. That is what we call one another."

She seemed about to say something else when looked out the window adjacent to their booth and focused on a distant flickering of blue light. Looking at Ben, she said, "Maybe we should go."

"Why? What's wrong?"

Fiela returned her gaze to the flashing lights, which seemed to be coming toward them. Paranoia, wondered Ben, or fear? Maybe she's on the run from the law?

"Now," said the girl. "We need to go, _now."_

# 5

With an abruptness that startled Ben, the girl jumped out of the booth and darted out the nearest exit and into the darkness. Against his better judgment, he followed, chasing her down an alley into the dimly lit parking lot of a motel behind the coffee shop. She sprinted toward a mop bucket that was positioned outside one of the rooms.

"What are you doing?" Ben yelled, walking toward her.

"Hide!" Fiela yelled back. She jerked the mop out of the bucket. "They're coming!"

"Who? Why?"

"The Maqtu!" she yelled. The word sounded exactly like _Mach 2_.

Placing the mop's head on the sidewalk, she lifted a boot and brought it crashing down on the lower end of the handle, shattering it. She spun the rest, now a polearm with a splintered end, from one hand to another, moving back towards Ben.

"Whoa," he said, not liking where this was going. "Put the stick down, Fiela."

"Do you have a gun?" she asked hopefully.

"With me? No."

"Then I'm not putting the stick down."

Suddenly the parking lot was bathed in flashing blue light. Ben turned to see a police cruiser pulling silently into the parking lot.

"Fiela, are you in some trouble?" Ben asked, but she was no longer there.

The police car came to a stop and a spotlight on the driver's side clicked on, blinding Ben. "SIR," boomed a man's voice over the cruiser's speaker, "PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM."

Me, Ben wondered? Not the deranged girl? __

He raised his hands into the air. "I'm unarmed," he yelled. But almost immediately, the loud crack of a gunshot filled the air, and he dropped to the ground.

"Hey!" he yelled at the cops. "What the hell? I'm down! I'm down! Stop shooting!"

There were two more gunshots. When no rounds impacted the asphalt near him, Ben realized that the police weren't shooting at him. They were shooting at Fiela.

There was a sudden movement to his left. It was Fiela moving fast - incredibly fast. Absurdly, she appeared to be charging the police car with the broken mop handle. The spotlight jerked away from Ben as its operator tried to hone in on the girl. It was an impossible task given Fiela's speed and how she weaved and ducked in ways that seemed somehow both random and purposeful.

When she was a few feet from the front of the cruiser, the girl launched herself into the air, landing with a loud thud in a crouched position on the hood. The spotlight no longer blinding him, Ben could see the startled expressions of the two policemen sitting inside.

Fiela did not idle. Keeping one leg tucked up under her and extending the other out, she spun until the boot on her extended leg slammed into the spotlight, destroying it. Before the vehicle's occupants could react, she leaped to the roof of the cruiser, the backs of the heels of her boots landing just above the windshield. She stood upright, her back to Ben, and became as still as a statue.

The passenger door of the police cruiser opened. An officer stepped out, gun in hand, looking upward. He said, "Ma'am, drop the-" and that was all because at that moment Fiela thrust the broken mop handle violently downward, ramming the splintered end into the man's face.

The man's scream was horrific, as was the geyser of blood. The officer collapsed to the ground. Inhuman gargles erupted from his throat as he writhed on the asphalt. Fiela spun the polearm and jumped from the roof, landing in a crouch on the fallen man's chest. The polearm blurred, and the officer was silenced. Fiela went flat, rolled, disappeared.

For an awkwardly long time, nothing else happened. The policeman remaining in the car was clearly at a loss as to what to do. He couldn't see Fiela, and after what had just happened to his partner, he was understandably hesitant to open his own door. He had his pistol out and was holding it upright above one shoulder, but it was useless inside the vehicle, and he had no target outside of it.

With no other options, he put the cruiser into reverse and rolled slowly back toward the entrance of the parking lot. As he did, Fiela was revealed. She had been beneath the car. When it was no longer above her, she calmly rose to her feet, aimed the fallen man's gun and sent six bullets into the cruiser's windshield. On the fifth shot, the glass above the steering wheel shattered, and on the sixth, the shattered glass turned crimson.

The cruiser stopped.

# 6

Fiela was walking toward Ben, the dead cop's gun in one hand and the mop handle in the other. "They're not after you, then. Not yet, anyway."

Ben rose from the ground watching the gun in her hand out of the corner of his eye. "Calm down, Fiela. Think about what you're doing."

She surveyed her surroundings as she wiped the sweat, blood, and dirt from her forehead with her jacket sleeve. "I can't stay here. Others will be coming for me."

Ben took a gamble and slowly placed his hands on her shoulders. Looking her in the eye, he said in a soothing voice, "Fiela, you need to turn yourself in. You killed two men. Two policemen."

"They were going to kill me if I didn't," she objected petulantly.

"I know," he said, speaking slowly, "and I'll swear to that in court. They fired first. I saw everything, Fiela. You'll be fine. Look, you've obviously got some great connections. Lilian, for one. I'm sure she or your family can get you whatever kind of help you need. Medical, legal, anything. But running is not the answer. It's going to make you look guilty."

Fiela gave him a reproving look that unexpectedly became a flash of astonishment. Her face lit up in an inexplicable smile. "It's you! I think I know who you are! You're the one my uncle told me about!"

"Your uncle?"

"Ridley!"

Ben gaped at her. "You're Mr. Ridley's niece?"

"Yeah," she said happily while looking him over. "Wow. Well done, uncle!" Her face fell as she saw that motel guests were assembling outside their rooms and gawking at them. "Sorry in advance," she mumbled.

"For what?"

There was a blur as something moved toward his face. The word 'mop' popped into his brain just as the handle thwacked the right side of his head. Stars danced in front of his eyes. The excruciating pain arrived a millisecond later when he was down on one knee.

Fiela crouched next to him and whispered, "Sorry!"

She stood, performed an elegant spin, and struck him again with the broken end of the mop handle, this time on his left cheek. He felt the flesh rip open.

Ben refused to scream. Dazed, he tried to stand, wobbled, and tried again.

"Ouch!" Fiela said on his behalf, wincing. "I forgot the end was splintered. Please, stay down! People are watching."

At some level, he knew staying down was what he should do, but it wasn't in his nature. Fiela had sucker-punched him, and the rage growing inside him was overshadowing his common sense. On his third attempt, Ben made it to his feet, staggering like a drunken sailor.

"Damn it," he grumbled, but he didn't know where his assailant was anymore. She was, it turned out, behind him, and she struck him behind his right knee, sending him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Cursing, he tried again to stand, but his right leg was ignoring all orders.

It didn't matter. He could already hear Fiela's footsteps fading into the distance.

* * *

Ben pulled himself upright against the front tire of a nearby car. Warm blood trickled down his cheek and onto his neck. He fumbled inside his pants pockets until he located his phone, which he withdrew and held a few inches from his nose. The glowing screen told him he had called Lilian only eleven minutes before.

"Are you okay, buddy?"

A squat, plump man in a bowling shirt was crouching beside him. His name tag identified him as _Manager._

"Mmph," replied Ben, using a finger to check his teeth.

"Here," the motel manager said, holding out a towel. "You got a nasty cut on your jaw there. You'll probably need stitches."

"Yeah," said Ben. All his teeth appeared to be where he'd left them the night before.

"I hear more police comin'," said the manager.

Ben heard the sirens, too. "Help me up," he grunted, and the manager put an arm around him and lifted until he was perched precariously on the car's fender. The researcher saw that many of the motel's occupants were using their phones to take pictures of the devastation. He was appalled to see that a few of the adults had brought their children with them. He imagined them saying, " _Look at the dead policemen, kids! Isn't that interesting?"_

His disgust grew when he saw some were taking selfies. _God in heaven, what has this world come to?_

The first car to arrive didn't belong to law enforcement. It was a black Mercedes with tinted windows and no plates. It rolled past the stalled police car, navigated around the corpse of the policeman and through the pond of blood before coming to a stop next to Ben and the motel manager. The driver's window slid down, and Lilian stared out.

"Ben, are you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" he asked, holding the blood-soaked towel against his face. "Do you realize that you drove through a crime scene?"

"There was no way around it," she responded defensively. She gave the manager a sideways glance and said to Ben, "Can you come here for a moment? I want to speak to you in private."

Grimacing, the man hobbled to the Mercedes and placed his forearms on the windowsill. As he did so, the passenger side door opened, and Mr. Fetch stepped out. The servant walked briskly around the front of the car and stopped in front of Ben. "May I have your car keys, sir?"

"My car keys? Why would I give you my car keys?" Ben ducked his head into the car and said to Lilian, "Who is Fiela and what, exactly, is wrong with her? Are we talking about drugs or insanity? Are you two in some kind of cult?"

"Fiela is friend. A troubled friend."

"Troubled? She just involved me in a police killing."

"That can be avoided."

"It's already happened, Lilian."

"It can be undone."

"Undone?" the bloodied man said incredulously. "You're both nuts."

Lilian reached out and stroked his cut cheek with the back of her hand. "You're injured, Ben. You need medical assistance."

He began to object but was distracted by an exquisite scent radiating from the soft flesh caressing his face. It was a perfume; a strange perfume. He couldn't remember smelling anything like it before. It was intoxicating.

In a curiously persuasive voice, Lilian said, "You've been hit on the head. You may have a concussion. You look dizzy." She emphasized the word 'dizzy.' "You could lose consciousness and what good would you be to the police then? Or to me?"

In fact, he did feel dizzy. A wave of nausea washed over him.

"Come with me, Ben. Everything will be fine. We'll get you a doctor, and my attorneys will take care of any concerns that the police may have."

_God, what kind of perfume is that?_

Ben realized the woman was right. He wasn't well. The smartest thing to do was to go with her. He handed his keys to the waiting Mr. Fetch and moved resignedly around the front of the Mercedes toward the seat the younger man had vacated.

"Hey, fella, you can't leave," objected the motel manager. "That's not the way things are done."

"I know," replied Ben.

"You gotta give a statement!"

Ben slid into the leather seat next to Lilian and closed the door, breathed in the refreshing new-car smell. Classical music was playing on the radio.

"Poor baby," she said. "You didn't turn off your phone, did you?"

"Still haven't," admitted Ben.

"No matter. Fiela is gone. She's the one they want."

"Why do the police want her?"

Lilian put the car into gear and performed a tight turn in the parking lot, forcing several gawkers to back away. She almost ran over a fat guy in a cowboy hat videoing the scene with his phone and laughing. "Long story. It can wait until tomorrow."

"Tomorrow I'll probably be in jail," Ben said, slumping against the door and reclining the power seat. "Or in court. The police are going to have a lot of questions for me."

"We'll see."

"A lot of people saw me with Fiela," Ben said weakly. "Some took pictures." He was fighting to remain conscious. "Maybe video," he mumbled.

"Sleep."

"Yeah, yeah. Mmmm..."

"I'm taking you back to your apartment."

"Mmmm" he responded from a million miles away. As he descended into the void, he mumbled, "Why are we doing this?"

Lilian answered, but Ben didn't hear a word.

# September 22

> He heard her word and accepted her speech.
> 
> The counsel of the woman
> 
> Entered his heart.
> 
> She stripped off a garment,
> 
> Clothed him with one.
> 
> Another garment
> 
> She kept on herself.
> 
> She took hold of his hand.
> 
> Like a god she brought him
> 
> To the fertile meadow.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The Epic of Gilgamesh (1300 B.C.)

# 7

Ben awoke feeling like he'd been hit by a train. He remembered almost nothing of what had happened after Lilian drove him away from the double murder and back to his apartment, except that at one point an elderly man had woken him to stitch up the cut on his cheek.

He dreamed or hallucinated still other visitors. Emaciated women with gray faces and eyes without pupils, foxes walking upright in Tudor-era costumes discussing mathematics, impossibly tall beings in flowing yellow robes, and Lilian, in scarlet, nursing something unspeakable from an exposed breast.

There was an orange-tinted bottle of painkillers on the nightstand nearest him. The label was blank except for the name of the pharmacy.

The clock there told him it was a few minutes before nine o'clock. There was an ongoing commotion in the parking lot below his second-story bedroom window. Voices - lots of them. He stumbled to the window and peered outside.

His heart skipped a beat. There were three police cars parked in front of his building. The law had caught up with him. He must have been ID'd by dozens of people. What had he been thinking last night when Lilian had convinced him to leave the scene of a crime?

But then he saw the barricades in front of the building, and the yellow warning tape, ambulances, and television news vans with large satellite masts hoisted into the air. There were at least fifty men and women loitering between the vehicles. Surely his arrest didn't merit _this_ kind of circus. His tension dissipated further when he saw that the cops in the yard below were drinking coffee and facing _away_ from the building. Whatever they were here for, it didn't appear to be an arrest.

"Quarantined," a voice said behind him.

He spun and almost fell from the ensuing dizziness. Fiela leaned against the doorway of his bedroom, a spatula in one hand. She was wearing one of his dress shirts; one of his _two_ dress shirts. Though it fell to mid-thigh, he could see that Fiela's legs were exquisitely sculpted, shapely, and toned to the point of perfection. They were also marred by dozens of razor-thin scars.

She had removed her heavy makeup, and she was, in her natural state, stunning. "Nice boxers," she said.

Only then did Ben realize he was in his underwear. Tugging the boxers up an inch and making a quarter turn, he mumbled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Lilian texted me your address and asked me to watch over you while she ran some errands. I was glad because I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night." She held up the spatula and smiled. "See, I'm making you breakfast!"

Ben held up a hand. "Wait! Take a step back." He wiped a hand over his face. "Aren't you on the run from the police?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "Like _always."_

"Uh-huh. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Lilian asked _you_ , of all people, to come to my apartment and watch over me? _You?"_

"Yeah, I do seem like an unlikely choice," the girl agreed, averting her eyes, before quickly adding, "But here we are! Together." She gave him a suggestive look. " _Alone..."_

"What? No, no...just... _no_." He made a motion toward the window. "Tell me why my building is quarantined."

"A few hours ago, someone who lives here was diagnosed with Cage's disease. It's the first case in Denver. It's quite contagious."

Ben's heart skipped a beat. For a moment he was unable to speak. When he could, he said, "Cage's? Here? Of all the places..."

He ran his fingers through his hair. What else could go wrong?

Cage's disease, named after the first known victim, Sally Cage, was known to cause sudden and rapidly progressing dementia, followed by memory loss and delusions. Mood swings kicked in as the victims became increasingly paranoid and depressed. Then the victims' bodies began to fail.

In short, the afflicted first lost their mind, then their bodies, and then their lives.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"Who was what?"

_"_ Who was infected?" asked Ben, louder than he'd intended. "What room number? Were they close by?"

The girl shrugged. "No idea. Do you like eggs?"

Ben felt the blood slowly draining from his face. Cage's disease spread like wildfire. If someone in his building was infected, he could be, too. Everyone in the building could be. By now, the entire block could be infected.

"You're not infected," the girl said, as if reading his thoughts.

"What?"

"You're not infected. The symptoms appear almost immediately. You were asleep for ten hours, but you're fine, right? Besides that _whoopsie_ I cut into the side of your face."

Ben thought about that and, after an agonizing ten seconds, decided she was right. Aside from feeling a little woozy from the drugs administered to him the night before, he felt fine.

But the realization that the airborne disease might at that very moment be working its way into his apartment tempered his momentary relief. Its spores - or whatever they were - might already be on every surface in the building, to include every doorknob and handrail. A gentle breeze in the main corridor could usher death into his apartment through the crack beneath his door.

Fiela said, "Lilian will be here, soon. Maybe I should make something for her, too."

Ben motioned toward the barricade outside. "I don't think Lilian is coming. Nor should she."

"No, she's coming for me. She has to _."_

"Why?"

"Because she doesn't want me arrested or taken to a camp."

"Camp? What camp?"

"The camp the military just erected outside the city limits. It's where they're taking the infected or those who might be infected. I'm in this building, which means I could be infected, right? I know I'm not, of course, but the government isn't taking any chances these days.

"Of course, there's also the possibility that I might be arrested, first. I did kill two cops last night. It's really just a question of who gets to me first - the military or the police. The police will arrest me and put me in jail until a hearing can be scheduled. The military will 'escort' me to a camp where they keep people dying of Cage's disease, which means even though I don't have it now, I'll be exposed to others who do in the camp."

She clucked her tongue twice and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "I think a jail cell would be better, at first, but it's only a matter of time before the prisoners there are infected. Days, at most. Either way, I'd be detained against my will and die an anonymous death in some truly terrible place surrounded by blood-puking zombies."

"Jesus!"

"Yeah." The girl smiled. "That's why Lilian's coming for me."

Ben shook his head. "She'll never make it past the police cordon. Even if she does, she could be infected as soon as she steps into the building. That would be insane, Fiela."

Fiela nodded and turned back toward the kitchen, saying, "Yep. It runs in the family."

# 8

Ben threw on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt before shuffling dazedly into the kitchen. Looking surprisingly domesticated, Fiela was readying coffee. Plates of eggs and toast were on the counter. Silverware, a pitcher of water, and glasses were on his small breakfast table.

There was also a newspaper. The researcher sat down and scanned the headlines, half expecting to see a police sketch of his face with the caption _Wanted for Questioning._ Instead, he found a small article on the second page with the header, _Arrest Debacle at Local Hotel._ It read:

Local police reported a shooting at a local motel, the Twin Rivers, at about 9:15 p.m. last evening. Two law enforcement officers were reportedly killed when they attempted to arrest a prostitute for solicitation. Early reports indicate that a man, possibly an associate of the female suspect, ambushed the officer who was attempting to handcuff the woman. In the ensuing struggle, the woman managed to take the officer's gun from its holster and shot into the police vehicle, mortally wounding the second policeman. Witnesses report the male suspect used a club to assault the arresting officer. The woman escaped on foot, and the man left the scene in a late-model sedan with tinted windows. Police have not released names or descriptions of the two suspects or the officers killed. No other information is available at this time.

Ben read the article three times. It was ridiculous. What source was the reporter using? Brooding on the errors and lack of specific information, he speculated that the police were purposely withholding information until he or Fiela were apprehended.

"I need clothes," Fiela said as she brought the plates to the table.

"You'll be issued some at the penitentiary. Or the camp."

"Ha! Good one!" said the girl as she set a plate in front of him. She placed her own just a few inches away from his before pulling a chair so close to him they were practically rubbing shoulders. As she ate, she put a bare foot lightly atop his and started moving it slowly up and down his leg.

"Um, Fiela," he began, but there was a commotion outside, giving him an excuse to rise from his chair and walk to the balcony. The police below were yelling at one another and hurriedly taking down the barricades around his apartment building. The ambulance, moving in reverse, had turned on its flashers and siren. The antenna on the news van was being rapidly lowered at the direction of a frenzied reporter waving her arms, a phone in one hand and a microphone in the other.

"What the.. _?"_

"Yeah," replied Fiela matter-of-factly, her mouth full of toast. "Sister's doing."

"Sister? Oh, right. You said that's what you and Lilian call one another. I still can't imagine that she'd put herself in danger just to-"

"She will."

The girl was right. One minute after the last barricade was removed, Ben watched Lilian's black Mercedes convertible, top down, roll into the parking lot. Lilian stepped out of the driver's side wearing a sleeveless navy-blue dress that stopped above the knees, and shiny black pumps. Seconds later, she knocked hurriedly on the door. Fiela answered.

"Sister!" the girl exclaimed excitedly, but Lilian walked past her.

Approaching Ben, she said, "I'm sorry about last evening-"

He stopped her advance with one hand. "Wait - never mind last evening. What the hell is going on? Where did the police go?"

"To another building nine blocks from here. But they won't be gone long."

Ben shook his head, mystified. "I don't understand. Why did they leave? It doesn't make sense."

Lilian said, "I realize you have a lot of questions, but there isn't time to answer them right now. The police were informed that they'd quarantined the wrong building. They left in order to quarantine the 'right' building. In less than thirty minutes, that ruse will collapse and they'll return here to start the evacuation. I do not intend to be here when that happens."

"You mean this _is_ the right building? It's infected?"

"An elderly man two floors above you was taken to the hospital last night. He tested positive."

"Christ Almighty..."

"The good news is that he was an invalid. He was probably infected by a nurse who visits him on occasion, to include yesterday. There's very little chance he could have spread the disease, though there's a small chance that the nurse might have. There's a secret 'zero risk' policy in effect which requires everyone who resides in the same domicile as an infected person to be removed from society."

"For how long?"

"I don't think you want the answer to that question, Ben. Now, _please_ , hurry!"

Ben didn't understand. "And do what?"

"Get together anything you can stuff into a bag. Your books, papers, clothes, whatever. We have little time!"

"We?"

The woman looked at the man with astonishment. "Surely you don't plan to stay here. You're either going to be infected, or arrested, or taken to a camp. You're in no better a situation than Fiela. You were there last night when the policemen were killed. You're in a building that could be infected by Cage's disease. It's only a matter of time before the police come for you - if the soldiers or the disease don't get to you first. Come with us!"

"To where?"

"A place very far away. A safe place."

"Steepleguard," said Fiela, taking a step toward him. She was wearing her clothes from the night before. Incredibly, she was grinning. The girl really was nuts, Ben decided.

"Steepleguard?"

Lilian nodded. "It's where Ridley lives. It's in the mountains. We'll never make it if we don't leave soon."

Ben stared at the woman. Everything was happening too fast. "I don't think...I mean, what if we're infected?"

"Don't _think_ ," pleaded Lilian. "Not now. You can think later, either with us, at Steepleguard, or with dead and dying at a containment camp. Your choice."

She took Fiela by the arm and began moving her roughly toward the doorway. "We leave in two minutes, Ben - with or without you."

# 9

Ben threw his satchel to Fiela, who was sitting in the convertible's backseat. She had donned a huge pair of designer sunglasses with lenses that were as black as night. Hearing sirens approaching, Ben jumped over the passenger side door and landed in the seat next to Lilian, who promptly gunned the engine. She raced out of the parking lot and onto an adjacent road without bothering to look for oncoming traffic. Angry horns blared in protest.

Watching the rearview mirror, Ben saw three police cruisers screech to a halt in front of his apartment building, blocking the entrance.

"Whew! That was close!" said Fiela, who was looking over her shoulder. Facing forward, she said, "Nice job, Sis."

Lilian managed a thin smile. "Thank you, Fiela." She shifted into a higher gear and turned toward Ben. "Twelve cylinders have their advantages in such situations. How do you feel?"

"Like a fugitive. Where are we going, again?"

"Steepleguard. It's where Fiela and I grew up."

"You're really related, then?"

"In a way. We were Ridley's charges when we were much younger."

"I don't understand."

"We were orphans. He raised us."

"Oh," said Ben awkwardly. Thinking he should say something else, he mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Behind him, Fiela laughed. "I should hope it wasn't _your_ fault!"

Ben looked back and saw that she was adding bullets to the magazine of the pistol she'd taken from the cop she'd killed the night before. When she saw him looking at her, she made a gun-hand, closed one eye, and aimed her finger at him.

She said, _" pew-pew-pew!" _

Ben turned back around.

Lilian said, "It was one of my father's former summer homes in the mountains before he gave it to Ridley. It was once the Steepleguard Hotel, built by some lumber barons in the 19th century. It was a popular retreat for the elite, but in the 1920s a mile-wide avalanche buried the railway and primary road that led to it. Neither was ever uncovered, but Ridley did improve upon a private, secondary road, which is the only way to access the building now. It is so remote that few people even know it exists. Ridley lives there alone except for a few servants, and they are quite trustworthy. I've a good place to 'lay low' for a few days."

Ben said, "Yeah, but eventually the police will come for us. Fiela and me. Maybe you, for assisting us."

Lilian shrugged. "Not right away. I've tasked my people to stir up some confusion. They've planted misleading information about a pimp and prostitute getting into an altercation with the police last night at that motel, for example."

Ben surveyed the road ahead, looking for any kind of law enforcement. Lilian was driving very fast, which didn't seem a good idea at this juncture.

"That sounds illegal."

"Not at all" responded the woman with perfect confidence.

"Look, a lot of the motel's occupants will identify _me_ as that alleged pimp."

"I hardly think so. The pimp was short, bald, and wore a leather jacket."

"No, the motel manager was short and bald. Fiela wore the leather jacket."

"Well," the woman said dubiously, "that is your account, but you were Fiela's personal piñata last night, and you're probably still high on prescription narcotics. Most witnesses remember things differently."

"What witnesses?"

"Some anonymous callers, some passers-by, and several of the motel guests."

"I don't understand. There's no way the people at the motel or anyone else saw what you described."

"My money says otherwise."

It took Ben a few seconds to grasp her meaning. "You bribed the guests to lie to the police?"

"My _people_ did, yes. Of course, we couldn't find all of them. It's the type of motel most often rented for the hour, not the day, if you know what I mean, and many of the guests scattered after the incident."

"Some of those guests you couldn't find will tell the police the truth."

"I'm sure. But think about it, Ben. Which account will the police believe? The story told by my people, of a pimp and prostitute getting into a melee with cops who were trying to arrest them, or some ludicrous story about a teenage girl assaulting and killing two policemen with a broken mop handle?"

"But my car-"

"Your car was removed by Mr. Fetch last night and parked in front of your apartment. I'm not surprised you missed it, given the hurry we were in."

Ben glanced nervously at the speedometer. The digital needle hovered about 98.

"Okay, I'll allow that you probably bought us some time, but many of the motel guests took photos or videos of Fiela and me with their phones. There might be video of us from security cameras."

"True," said the driver. "The truth will come out. It's inevitable. But it will take time. When they finally do identify you as the man who was present, their search for you will be impeded by the fact that everyone in your apartment building was evacuated to a camp. They'll look for you in the camp, first, of course. After all, your car is in front of your apartment, which suggests you may have been removed by the Army. When they can't find you in the camp, they'll wonder if maybe you are staying with friends or family, not because you're on the run from the police but because you need a place to stay. Another theory will be that you contracted Cage's disease and died in a ditch somewhere..."

Lilian crossed three lanes of traffic without signaling - or even looking. Horns blared.

"My point is that identifying you and looking for you will take time. My attorneys will use that time to their advantage, I assure you."

Ben didn't know what else to say. Apparently, the wealthy woman had been very busy while he slumbered. "I still don't understand why you're doing all this. If everything you say is true, you've spent a great deal of money to help me. You've put yourself at risk, too. Why?"

"I didn't do it for you, Ben. I did it to protect Fiela. I'm used to getting her out of little scrapes like this."

"Little scrapes? Is that what last night was? A _little scrape? "_

Lilian ignored the question. "I felt that I should also help you, since I was responsible, however indirectly, for Fiela involving you in all this."

Fiela leaned forward, popping her head into the space between them, and looking at Ben. "You know, I've been thinking about what happened last night, and I really am sorry, but if you think about it, I did you a favor."

Ben chuckled mirthlessly. "How's that?"

"If you hadn't met me, you would have gone back to your apartment and just gone to bed."

"Right," Ben agreed. "I'd have gone back to my apartment minus a gash in my cheek, without having just been involved in the killing of two cops, and without a warrant for my arrest having been issued."

"There's no warrant yet," Lilian pointed out.

"No," said Fiela to Ben, exasperated. "You're missing the point. The old man in your apartment building would have contracted Cage's whether or not I showed up. What would have happened to you this morning if I hadn't found you last night? If nothing at all had happened? I'll tell you. You would have been woken up by soldiers pounding on your door. _That's_ what would have happened. You'd be in the back of an army truck on the way to a Cage's camp at this very moment. Right? _Right? "_

Ben opened his mouth, prepared to make a snide remark, but he realized the girl was right. If Lilian hadn't come to his apartment this morning to save Fiela, she wouldn't have saved him, too.

"She has a point, you know," said Lilian. "Those camps are just places to die. If you weren't infected when you arrived, you would have been soon after."

Ben looked at his unexpected savior and managed to mumble, "Well, maybe."

Fiela gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "You're welcome," she said playfully.

"But you did still make me a fugitive."

The girl let escape an exaggerated sigh and slumped forward. "Oh, Ben! You worry too much!"

# 10

Outside of Ben's apartment, a dozen soldiers in white hazmat "moon suits" were escorting residents from the building to one of five unmarked buses idling in the parking lot. Most had suitcases, but a few carried their possessions in large trash bags. Some of them looked bewildered, but most looked terrified.

The smaller children cried, scared by the ominous appearance of the moon suits and guns and not understanding what was happening. There had been two scuffles, both involving young men who refused to get on the buses. One was a troublemaker who kept screaming about this constitutional rights. The other was a man justifiably concerned that a trip to any Cage's camp was a one-way affair.

Shots were fired into the air, a moon suit was ripped open, and blood was spilled, but in the end, both men were handcuffed and loaded onto one of the buses.

A man dressed in a black silk suit stood just outside the cordon, just behind one of the dozens of news vans. He was about sixty years old, tall, thin, and pale-faced. He wore a black fedora and Browline glasses with thick lenses. Though his name was Frank Whitaker, he was more often referred to his nickname, "Morty," which was shorthand for "The mortician." Even that name was a misnomer, however, since Frank Whitaker's specialty was torture. It was his subjects' inevitable and horrific deaths that earned him the honorary title of "the mortician."

He held his phone to his ear and said, "We missed him."

The voice in his ear said, "How? The entire building was surrounded."

"Snafu at the police department," replied Morty, staring at a particularly attractive newswoman who was preparing to go live. "They moved the whole circus a few blocks away because of some mix-up downtown and quarantined another building by mistake. By the time they returned, the man was gone. His unit's empty."

The voice said, "Is there any chance he's just running an errand and might return?"

"I don't think so, sir. There were two unfinished meals on a table in his apartment, still warm. They would have been prepared during the first quarantine event. I think that he and whoever was with him got spooked and made a run for it when the cordon was temporarily removed. If he and his guest are smart, they won't be coming back."

"Who was the other person?"

"Unknown, sir. It's possible someone else from the complex might have seen whoever it was, but the other tenants are on buses, and I don't have access to them. They'll be interviewed at the camp, of course, but that will take time. It's going to be chaos for a few days."

There was a pause before the voice said, "I don't think there was a snafu downtown. Do you?"

Morty shook his head for no reason. "No, sir. It was a script. Had to be. Short-run, single degree, and hastily thrown together. Not exactly a work of art."

"Yes, but it worked, didn't it?"

"Yes, sir. It worked." Morty waited for a reply. When none came, he said, "Sir, what would you like me to do?"

The voice returned. "Demobilize the interrogation team and get me every scrap of information you can on the slave, Ben Mitchell. Use all your resources. I'm coming to Denver."

# 11

The funnel cloud descended from the black sky and sucked Ben out of the car, throwing him into a gray fog. Ben felt himself falling. Surveying the brown terrain below he realized that the vortex had carried him back to Afghanistan.

As soon as he was on the ground, he heard the terrible high-pitched screech of a base alarm, followed by a man's voice screaming " _Incoming! Incoming! Incoming!_ " __ The former Marine found that he was standing in the middle of a desert, far from any base or bunker.

It was night, and the silhouettes of the steep, jagged mountains of eastern Afghanistan surrounded him like the coiled, spiked tail of a dragon. He saw lights hurdling down from the starry sky to the Earth below, and he thought, _'Rockets!'_ and knew only the Taliban used rockets like this, and they only fired them at Coalition bases, so he ran toward the falling stars.

There seemed to be millions of them, which was ludicrous because the insurgents never had more than a few dozen on hand and rarely fired them all at once. They were psychological weapons that rarely caused casualties and thus were used sparingly. Each time one of the lights overhead descended behind the mountains, there was an ear-piercing _CRACK_ like a shotgun blast at close range, and he cringed.

He found he was running through a field of dead horses, and then he was _on_ one of them and racing toward the mountains and the battle. He could hear explosions and screams and the too-familiar whooshing noises as glowing objects zipped over him to the mountains ahead.

_CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!_

Somehow his reanimated horse made it to the top of a mountain in just a few leaps, but by then the attack seemed to have ended. The skies were still, and all was silent. It was cold, and the air smelled of burnt wire. Below him was a narrow valley dotted with hundreds of giant glowing oysters, and he wondered why there were oysters in Afghanistan.

They began to pop open, one by one.

His horse collapsed, and he fell and rolled into the valley, stopping a few feet from one shell. It was covered in colorful squiggles that glowed like neon lights. It was still closed, but he could see movement through the crack between top and bottom.

Someone was inside.

No, not someone – some _thing_. It was too big and too wrinkled and hideous to be human. Ben saw a tentacle or snake or worm slipping through the cracks and moving toward him. He was paralyzed and could feel his chest emptying of breath. The mountains began to rotate - to slither - around him, growing closer with each revolution, and he realized they were not mountains but something else entirely.

_"Run!"_ said the blasphemy inside the shell as its cold, slimy tentacle wrapped itself around his neck. _"Run, or die!"_

# 12

"Ben, wake up. We're almost there."

It was Lilian's voice coming from somewhere far away.

"Ben?"

He felt his body moving left and right. With a start he jerked forward, his eyes opening. He turned to see Lilian looking at him and wearing an amused expression. Embarrassed, he mumbled, "What did you say?"

"Steepleguard is just around the corner. You've been asleep for almost four hours."

"Oh," he said, self-consciously wiping drool from his chin. "Wow. Those painkillers pack a punch. I don't remember drifting off to sleep."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little disoriented." He discovered that his seat was in a reclined position, so he clumsily searched for the controls. Finding them, he raised himself back to a nearly vertical position and surveyed the surrounding terrain. He saw nothing but trees, boulders, and patches of ice in shaded areas. The skies were overcast.

"We're in the mountains," Lilian said, seeing his confusion. "Very deep into them, actually, and near the top of the one on which Steepleguard was built. We're on a private road, which is why it's bumpy. Sorry."

"I've been on worse," the former Marine said. "Is this road even on a map?"

"No. It shows up on satellite images, of course, but it doesn't merit inclusion on any travel map because no one can use it except Ridley's guests and servants. There's a very formidable gate a few miles behind us that does an excellent job of deterring trespassers, which you didn't see."

They drove past a squat obelisk of white marble bearing a bronze plate inscribed with the words, "Steepleguard Hotel." The tires of the car hummed and bounced as the surface beneath them changed from asphalt to cobblestone.

A minute later, the former hotel came into view. Ben leaned forward.

"Oh my God," __ he said. "You grew up _here?"_

The immensity of the structure took Ben's breath away. Built in a Swiss Chalet style, the brown brick edifice was actually several structures, some four stories tall, others five, and still others six, that seamlessly abutted one another. Countless dormers and towers of stone and masonry jutted out from the walls. It was as if all the buildings of an entire medieval Swiss village had been somehow squeezed together. The roofs, for there were many, were steeply pitched and composed of layers of etched turquoise metal that he assumed was copper. Snow-capped mountains surrounded and towered over the building, yet also seemed to pay homage to it.

"Impressive, yes?" said Lilian.

"How many rooms does this thing have?"

"Four hundred guest rooms. Maybe more. There are also a few guesthouses in the woods. If you think this is impressive, wait until you see the Great Hall."

"What does Ridley do with all this space? You could house a displaced nation here. It's a miniature city!"

"Most of Steepleguard is sealed off. He works out of a few rooms on the bottom floor."

"Does it have electricity?"

"Yes. There are no distribution lines to the hotel because of its remoteness, but there is an impressive array of generators and sophisticated geothermal and solar apparatuses that Ridley installed a few years ago."

"It must cost a fortune to maintain it."

"Money's not an issue for Ridley."

"That must be nice," the man mumbled.

"Oh, it is," said Lilian, giving him a mischievous look. Looking forward again, she continued, "A downside of the remoteness is that there's no cell phone coverage. But that's also an upside. It means the police can't use our cell phone signals to track us. You turned your phone off, didn't you?"

Ben grimaced. _Shit_. "Ah...no. I, um, forgot about that." He pulled out his cellphone only to discover that the battery was dead. When had it died, he wondered? Where had he and his fellow fugitives been when it last pinged a tower?

Distracted, he said, "Does Ridley have a landline phone?"

"Of course."

They came to a stop at the end of a wide cobblestone walk that led to two immense black oak doors that served as the hotel's main entrance. The doors were easily two stories tall and elegantly carved with reliefs of mountains, lakes, wildlife, and, curiously, a five-circuit Cretan labyrinth. The harp-shaped handles were made from deer antlers.

Fiela jumped from the backseat and onto the pavement in a single smooth motion. Stretching, she said, "Yowza! That was a long ride!"

"The servants will see to our bags," Lilian said to Ben as they emerged from the car. She walked around the vehicle and slipped her hand inside the crook of Ben's arm. "May I?"

"Sure," he replied, surprised, but not unpleasantly. He was also glad to have her support. He was still groggy from the pain meds.

Fiela fell in behind them, and the three proceeded down the cobblestone walk toward the former hotel's entrance. As they did, the doors swung outward, and an old man stepped onto the stone porch. Ben assumed the figure was his true client; the man known as _Ridley._

He was a sight to behold. The ancient man wore an untethered red silk robe that flapped lazily over a gray sweatsuit, and his shuffling feet were adorned in sandals and socks. His gray hair was cut so short that the flesh of his scalp shone through it, though his silver goatee and eyebrows were disproportionately full. The whites of his eyes had been replaced with something approaching the color of parchment. With his pronounced stoop, he stood just over five feet tall. Ben guessed his age at ninety years, minimum.

Fiela rushed the man and embraced him in a bear hug. "Uncle!" she exclaimed happily, and the old man put his arms around her and kissed her forehead.

"Hello, Fiela! How is my favorite niece?"

"Your only niece, you mean. I'm good." She motioned behind her. "We've brought a guest."

"So you have," the host said as Ben approached. He clasped the researcher's outstretched hand. "I'm delighted to meet you."

"It's a pleasure meeting you, sir."

"And my dear Lilian," said Ridley.

Lilian leaned forward to allow the old man to hug her. "Good afternoon, _Scriptus_."

Ridley took a step back and appraised the couple. "How are you both?"

"I am well," said the woman, "but Ben is recovering from a chance encounter with Fiela last evening."

"Oh?" Observing the stitches, the old man mumbled, "That was unfortunate." He gave Fiela a withering look which caused the girl to clasp her hands in front of her and to cast her eyes toward the ground. It was the posture of a penitent.

"It's just a scratch, really," said Ben. "She apologized."

Still staring at Fiela, Ridley gave an absent nod. "Well, she is a somewhat impetuous young woman, but she is a treasure, I assure you. You'll agree with me once you get to know her better."

Ben didn't think so, but seeing the hint of a smile on Fiela's downcast face, he said, "I'm sure."

* * *

The first room they entered was what Lilian had referred to as the Great Hall, and as she had promised, its size stunned Ben. Obviously designed to impress arrivals to Steepleguard, the cavernous room was, he figured, at least as large as the Sistine Chapel, and probably larger when the four stories of room balconies overlooking the hall were factored in.

Above the highest balcony, two-dozen stained glass windows poured colorful, diffused light into the hall. Two rows of marble columns the size of those found at the Parthenon segregated the hall into three distinct regions, the center leading to a distant check-in counter, on either side of which were a set of wide staircases that curved steeply up and away from the counter and to the second-floor balcony.

The areas to the left and right of the columns were lounges, each harboring stone fireplaces large enough for a man could to walk into without crouching. The entire hall was devoid of furniture or rugs. Their footsteps echoed loudly as they entered the room.

"Be it ever so humble," announced Ridley. "How was your trip? Were there any..." He searched for the right word. "Complications?"

Lilian looked at Ben. "I called Ridley before I picked you and Fiela up at your apartment. He knows everything." Turning back to the old man, she said, "No complications. It was a near thing, of course."

"Ah, good. Well, we're off to a rough start, but I'm sure things will improve." He gave the woman a purposeful look. "Lilian, why don't you and Fiela situate yourselves while I speak to Ben in private."

"As you wish, Scriptus," the woman replied. She stepped toward Ben and startled him by brushing her lips against his. "Thank you, Ben."

"For what?"

"A leap of faith."

# 13

When the two women were gone, Ridley said, "What has Lilian told you about your potential assignment?"

Ben, his head clearing, scratched the back of his neck, still thinking about the kiss. He was surprised that his host wanted to take about the potential job as opposed to, say, his niece's murderous rampage the night before, or the arrival of Cage's disease in Denver, or the trio's escape from the city.

"Not much, really. Our meeting yesterday was brief, and I only got a few hours of sleep last night, so I napped most of the way here. I know that you have some allegedly ancient stone tablets that you want me to study. I've got the photographs. Can you tell me anything regarding the tablets' pedigree?"

Ridley nodded. "Of course. They are not mine, though. They belong to an organization of which I am a member. I am more a custodian than anything else."

"What organization would that be, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I doubt you've heard of it. It' called the _Delphic Order of the Nisirtu_."

"When I first met Fiela, she said something to me about Nisirtu, but I wasn't sure what she was talking about. It makes sense, now. __ That's an Akkadian word, isn't it?"

Ridley nodded. "That's very astute of you. Yes, Akkadian. It can be interpreted several ways but most correctly as 'Secret Council.' Nisirtu is both singular and plural. One can be _a Nisirtu_ and part of _the Nisirtu_. It's an artifact of the language. We do not have singular and plural tenses, exactly. Not anymore."

"Fiela knows how to speak Akkadian, then?"

"Yes."

"Lilian?"

"Yes, everyone in our society can speak at least rudimentary Akkadian, though it would be more precise to say that we speak its descendent, which we call _Agati._ Everyone in our organization can, to include Lilian and Fiela. Truth be told, we've borrowed so much from other languages over the millennia that it bears little resemblance to its source. Even our sentence structure differs from that used in the classical form of the language."

"Rather an odd choice for a secret language, isn't it? Why not just use Latin? It is appropriately esoteric for a secret society and much easier to learn, I'm sure."

"Well, I'm afraid we don't have much choice. It was the language spoken by our founders. We trace our lineage back to ancient Mesopotamia, you see." He gave a short, pleasant laugh. "I'm sorry. I'm sure that sounds outrageous."

Ben shrugged. "Not at all. Most secret societies fabricate ancient origins. There's no reason yours should be different."

"Thank you. You'll find that we can get a bit carried away with the whole conceit. From time to time, we'll even dress up in silly costumes and perform pointless but colorful rituals."

Ridley looked away, as if embarrassed. "We can be just as self-centered and pompous as any other secret society. You belong one to yourself, do you not?"

Ben smiled and looked down at his right hand. "Ah, my ring. Yes, but I'm afraid our secrets aren't quite as grand as yours."

"You'd be surprised, Ben. We are, as these societies go, somewhat related. But we can talk about that another day."

The linguist wasn't quite sure what to make of that. He filed it away and asked, "How large is the...um, the Order of the Nisirtu?"

"We have a few thousand members in chapters - which we call _Kingdoms_ \- around the world. I hold the position of 'scribe' and am usually referred to as _Scriptus_."

"Yes, I heard Lilian address you as such. Do you keep records of meetings, that kind of thing?"

"Not exactly."

"Ah." There was an awkward silence. The researcher swayed back and forth just to have something to do. "Well, I'd like to look at the tablets if you don't mind. I seem to be trapped here, at the moment, so I should put my time to good use."

"Wouldn't you like to rest, first? There's no hurry. Based on what Lilian told me, you might be staying here for some time."

Ben shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe the police are on their way here, even now. There's no way to know. Since I'm already here, I'd like to at least glimpse the tablets before I'm hauled away, if that's my fate."

The old man cupped an elbow in one hand and toyed with his lower lip. "Ben, I do _want_ to show you the tablets, but first I'll need you to indulge me on a small matter."

"Sure, what?"

"I will show you the tablets in order that you may verify they are authentic and that the inscriptions are, in fact, unknown in your field. That is only fair, after what you have been through. However, if you decide the tablets are legitimate, and you agree to accept the job I'm offering you, you must first become a member of our society."

Ben was caught off guard. "Why should I be required to do that?"

"Because the tablets are the property of the Nisirtu. It is forbidden for anyone other than the Nisirtu to study them."

"That sounds like an unnecessary impediment, Ridley. I'm not taking them home with me. I'm inspecting them at your request."

The other man looked apologetic. "I know. Nevertheless, you'll find that you will have more unfettered access if you become, well, _one of us_."

"What does that mean?" the other man asked cautiously. "I'm not rich. Not by a long shot."

"Let me worry about the money. You simply need two sponsors - in this case, Lilian and Fiela - and you'd need to sign a contract that prohibits you from disclosing what you might learn about the Nisirtu to others."

The linguist considered this. "To clarify, all you want from me is a promise not to reveal the secret handshake?"

Ridley nodded. "You understand me exactly."

Ben took in a deep breath. "I don't see any problem there, but before I can agree to your terms, we must discuss my fee."

"Oh, that," replied Ridley, patting the air as if taming a giant, invisible dog. "No worries, Ben. I will pay you handsomely. Name a figure you think is reasonable."

The researcher had already mulled potential numbers but hadn't settled on a price. Ridley and his ilk seemed to have a lot of money, and the old man seemed impatient for the work to start. That gave Ben an advantage, he thought. __

Summoning all of his courage, he blurted, "Twenty-thousand dollars." But as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them. He saw Ridley's grandfatherly smile falter.

_He's thinking I'm an opportunist_ , Ben realized. _He thinks I'm trying to take advantage of him because he's rich._

Wasn't he, though?

It took all of Ben's willpower to maintain eye contact with the old man.

Ridley finally spoke. "Ah...well. That seems rather steep," he said in a low, gravelly voice. He seemed more baffled than angry, however. "Twenty-thousand dollars..." he repeated, and raised his eyes to the ceiling as he contemplated the offer. He began absently tugging on one of his robe's sleeves as he mumbled, "What to do, what to do..."

Ben tried to undo the damage. "That's just an estimate, sir. It might go down if I see the tablets and-"

But the old man held up a hand. "No, no. That's your rate. I understand. How many days would it take, do you think?"

"I can't say without seeing the tablets. Based on the photos..." Ben raised his shoulders. "A month, perhaps, for my initial analysis?"

Another torturous minute passed before the other man nodded. Looking at the researcher, he said, "Very well. I'll have to move some money around, but I'm sure we can accommodate you. Do you intend to work on weekends?"

"Of course."

"Will you accept half in advance, with the other half to be deposited when you've completed your work?"

"Yes, that would be fine," Ben said, fighting to control the tremble in his voice. It had been a long time since there'd been five digits in front of the decimal on his bank statement.

"And you'll accept the terms I set forth?" asked Ridley, giving Ben a hard look.

"I will."

Ridley grunted good-naturedly and extended his hand. Ben shook it, and the deal was made.

"You drive a hard bargain, Ben. Twenty thousand is a lot of money for a day's work."

Ben froze, his hand still in Ridley's. "Come again?"

"That'll net you a pretty penny by the time you're done. Six hundred thousand dollars for a single job? My God! I had no idea that a person in your line of work could demand such fees. Bravo, I guess."

Ben didn't respond. He'd suddenly forgotten how to speak.

Ridley chuckled as if the entire transaction amused him. "Well, it's only money. Come on. I'll take you to the tablet vault."

# 14

The pair traveled down a labyrinth of confusing corridors before stopping in front of a faded white wooden door that looked to be original to the house.

A reproduction of an old painting, a foot wide and perhaps half as tall, had been affixed to the wall above and to the right of the doorknob. Ben was familiar with the original painting but couldn't remember where he had seen it before. It showed the erection of a giant stone building that was shaped like an inverted cone, with a masonry walk spiraling up its exterior like threads on a screw. Dozens of shadowy, arched portals checkered the building's surface. At the top of the building, which was unfinished, workers toiled to make the building taller still. An ancient city was in the background, its buildings dwarfed by the new edifice.

Ridley gave him a mischievous look. "An old family photo." He placed his palm on the print. There was a whir and click. "This is a proprietary bio-identification plate, or 'bioplate.' Usually it's just a slab of black porcelain. I thought the painting was a nice touch, though."

He gestured toward the open door. "If you would do the honors?"

Ben reached down and turned the handle, which was surprisingly firm in his grip, and he soon understood why. The door was composed of six-inch thick steel. The wooden surface visible in the hallway was merely a façade.

Ridley opened the door, and Ben followed him into a room the size of a two-car garage. The walls, floor, and ceiling were concrete painted white. Large fluorescent lights, motion-activated, flickered to life overhead. Running perpendicular to the vault door were four rows of polished oak display cases with glass lids. Visible inside the cases were collections of flat black stones ranging in size from a few inches to a foot in diameter, each a quarter-inch to an inch thick.

Ridley motioned the other man to join him at a cabinet. The scribe grasped a bronze handle on the forward edge of the lid, pulled it open and reached in and withdrew a specimen. He handed the slab to the visitor before the younger man could put on the gloves which he'd brought with him.

Ben turned the tablet over. "I'm not familiar with this stone. What is it?"

"Carbonaceous chondrite. There are some variations to the molecular structure that remain unexplained, but which seem to give them unique properties, like resistance to erosion. The variation exists only in these tablets."

Ben drew a blank. "Carbonaceous chondrite?"

"Meteorites. The tablets are carved from meteorites that have undergone some kind of refinement."

"That's...well, odd." He thought about it a moment longer. "Do you have a magnifying glass?"

Ridley nodded at a stout oak table in one corner of the room. "There's a magnifying lamp right over there."

Ben walked over to the table, flipped on the lamp, and put the tablet in his hand beneath it. Just as he had seen in the photographs, he now saw a confusing network of thousands of etched lines in a rainbow of colors. Lines that sometimes ran parallel to one another, sometimes perpendicular, and sometimes at angles. Lines that bent and swirled and looped. Yellow lines that crossed red lines, but not green lines. Red lines that crossed green lines, but only after having crossed yellow lines. Red lines that curved back on themselves at the corners, whereas violet lines never curved back on themselves.

_Patterns_ , he confirmed. There were patterns. Rules?

Maybe.

He said, "Why did you conclude that these etchings constitute a written language?"

"I have good reasons to believe so, which I will share with you if you accept the assignment. Don't you find the lines peculiar?"

"Yes, but they could represent many things other than a writing system."

"I doubt that is what your instincts are telling you."

The old man was right. Letting out a breath, Ben said, "What _can_ you tell me about the inscriptions, then? The cuts worry me. They look machined, and if they are machined, they are not ancient."

"I understand your concern. In fact, there is no variation in width or depth at any point in any inscription. The engravings were made with a level of precision that exceeds what we are capable of today with lasers or computer-aided instruments."

Ben stood erect. "You don't expect me to believe that."

"I'll produce the lab reports for you."

"Can you also provide documentation as to when and where the tablets were found?"

"Yes. Our society keeps impeccable records."

Flipping off the magnification lamp and reluctantly returning the tablet to the case the old man had withdrawn it from, the researcher said, "I can't say the tablets are authentic, not with such a cursory review. The precision of the cuts is bothersome."

"But you would like to study them, per our agreement?"

Ben took in a deep breath. "Yes."

# 15

The name of the thirty-something man standing outside the arrival gate at Denver International Airport was Moros. Tall, lean, and undeniably handsome, he wore a loose-fitting, pinstriped Italian silk suit with a red handkerchief poking out from the left breast pocket. On his feet was a freshly polished pair of gray Forzieri shoes. His shiny auburn hair was styled in the latest "controlled chaos" fashion made famous in southern Europe, and his androgynous facial features were accented with just the right amount of rouge and crimson lipstick. Black eyeliner framed his almost fluorescent silver eyes.

Moros impatiently examined the Jaeger-LeCoultre on his wrist, but as he did so, a hunter green Porsche 918 Spyder navigated haphazardly between two stalled taxis and came to a stop in front of him. A young, red-haired woman in a white jacket and sheath dress jumped out of the driver's side and rushed towards him. She wore wire-rimmed spectacles that sported dime-sized orange lenses.

"Mr. Moros?" she asked when she reached him.

"Miss Fetch," he replied in an accent the woman could not place, "you are eight minutes late."

"Yes sir, sorry, the traffic-" she began, but abandoned the apology when his expression warned her it was unwelcome. She changed course. "Do you have any luggage, sir?"

"Of course not. I don't tote used clothing around the world in plastic boxes. We'll obtain what I need on the way to the hotel."

"Where would you like to go?"

" _Finshim's_ , to start," he said, naming an upscale clothing store on the city's outskirts.

"Sir, it's Sunday morning, Finshim's doesn't open for four hours."

Moros said, "That is a problem that either you will fix, or I will fix. Which shall it be, Miss Fetch?"

The man's countenance was frightening. Miss Fetch, who in another reality was called Barbara Volker, tried to mask her intimidation. She failed and looked away.

"I'll fix it, sir," she said in a tiny voice, pulling her phone from her purse. "If you'd like to have a seat in the car, I'll make the necessary calls."

Moros's expression was suddenly benevolent. "A superb answer. For the briefest moment, I thought you were destined for the gallows."

Miss Fetch opened the passenger door of the Porsche, and the man slid agilely inside and began an examination of his nails. She was tapped on the shoulder before she could punch the first button on her phone. Turning, she found herself in the shadow of a huge man in a police uniform who had positioned himself between a large "No Parking" sign and the Spyder.

"Oh," she said, flustered, "I'm about to move."

"Miss Fetch, right?" asked the man in a gravelly voice.

Puzzled, she lowered her phone. "That's right."

"Going to some place called 'Fin-shim' or something like that?"

Miss Fetch stared up at the man, "How did you know?"

"Boss told me. He tells me you have a VIP in the car. I'm to escort you and make sure you don't get delayed." He nodded toward a police cruiser on the other side of the road. "Give me a minute. When I get in front of you and turn on the flashers, follow behind me. I'm going to be driving fast but I think that little import of yours can probably keep up."

"Oh - _oh_ , okay," she said, but the policeman was already walking away. As she hurried back to her car, she punched a speed dial and initiated a frantic, desperate conversation with a woman on the other end. Driving fast, with a police escort, gave her ten minutes to arrange for Finshim's to be opened. It was impossible, and she could feel her chest tightening.

"I don't care!" she yelled into the phone as she got behind the wheel and angrily pushed the seat belt out of the way. "Get hold of the owner or the manager or whoever and get them there. Do whatever it takes." This last bit was pure theatrics, since the person on the other end had already hung up, but Miss Fetch wanted desperately to prove to Mr. Moros that she was trying to please him.

The police car sounded its warning sirens, " _whoop whoop whoop,_ " and turned on its flashers. Pedestrians obediently made way as the cruiser positioned itself in front of the Spyder and accelerated. Miss Fetch put her car into gear and followed it.

Looking at her, Moros said, "This is your first assignment, Miss Fetch?"

"Yes, sir."

"What do you normally do?" he asked, though he already knew. In truth, he knew not only the woman's profession but also her income, medical history, personality type, sexual preferences, and everything else about her. He knew that she was an assistant to a famous banker, that she had high triglycerides, that she had once had an abortion, that she proclaimed a love for alternative rock but secretly listened to 80s pop music, and that she spent most evenings alone in her apartment browsing financial and international news sites in addition to websites dedicated to alternative medicine, fashion, and Indian cooking.

Her most recent internet purchases included a slipcover for a couch, a wireless router, and two sex toys ordered a week apart. Apparently, the first one just wasn't getting the job done.

"I'm an executive assistant to Gerald Powers," she said, citing the name of the too-big-to-fail bank's president and CEO.

"You are young for such a position. You're an ambitious person, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, I am," she said.

"That is unfortunate," Moros said with the slightest shake of his head.

Miss Fetch frowned, "Pardon me, sir?"

"You say you are ambitious, but you have already failed me twice in the space of five minutes. You arrived late at the airport, and you are begging someone else for assistance in opening the doors at Finshim's."

"But you said-"

_"Listen, Miss Fetch."_ The edge in the passenger's voice made the hairs on the driver's neck tingle. "I do not believe in a learning curve. When a person like _me_ tells you they want something, you deliver it. If you are a good fetch, you will find that in a few short years you will be fabulously wealthy with an extraordinary number of influential friends and business contacts. You will be a god in your pathetic little world. But if you are a bad fetch, you, your friends, and your family will be marked, and it is a mark that cannot be removed. Failure and despair will follow you all the days of your life. Do you understand that?"

"Yes sir," Miss Fetch said hoarsely.

"Good. Now, if I tell you that I wish to procure clothing from an establishment that is closed, you do not call anyone begging for help. You call the owner and demand that the doors be opened, and you dictate when. If we arrive and the doors are not open, you will shatter the storefront glass with a brick, or shoot off the lock, or attack the door with an ax, or if you prefer, you will pay someone else to do those things. You will do whatever it takes to please me, and you will not worry about the repercussions, because if you are with me, there _are_ no repercussions. Not for success. There are only repercussions for failure. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Yes, sir," the fetch said, her face hot as she beat back tears and sped up to catch the cop car. She had been so distracted by Moros's words that she had inadvertently slowed down, allowing the distance between the Spyder and its escort to expand to five car lengths.

"You are new," her employer continued, "which is why I arranged for this police escort and my accommodations. I will go lightly on you this trip because you do not understand what true freedom is, but this will be the only time I overlook such failures. Another mistake and I shall burn the mark into your forehead myself and dump you into an alley."

He watched as the woman's face reddened and waited for her to protest, but she gave a curt nod and continued to look forward.

"Excellent."

Miss Fetch cleared her throat and said distractedly. "May I ask what brings you to Denver, Mr. Moros?"

The man smiled. "A white horse, Miss Fetch."

# 16

A servant escorted Ben to his room. It was ridiculously opulent. The bathroom alone was larger than his apartment, with a bathtub the size of a small pool. On a marble shelf, he had found nine varieties of soap. Half came from Europe or Asia and contained herbal ingredients he had never heard of. The bed was over-the-top, spanning two zip codes. _Who could possibly need a bed that big?_ Yet, the mattress was magical. He had lain down on it intending to rest his eyes and had almost been sucked back into the land of dreams. It took considerable willpower to lift himself back onto the floor.

The servant who showed him to his room had informed Ben that dinner would be at six o'clock and asked if there was anything Ben required before then. Ben had asked for coffee, and fifteen minutes later, the servant returned with an entire pot of the best coffee the researcher had ever tasted. Apparently, Ridley didn't insult his guest with the 10% Kona blends.

He was stepping out of the shower - there were six showerheads with a digital control panel with which he could set the water temperature and showerhead "mode" - when a sleek black phone built into the bathroom wall rang to life. Surprised, he wrapped a towel around his waist and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hi, Ben." It was Lilian. "How are you settling in?"

"Very well, thanks. This place is a star above five-stars. It's amazing."

"I'm glad you like it. Ridley told me you accepted the assignment. He's over the top with relief. But he told me he bargained you down to poverty rates."

"He _what?"_

"Never mind, I'll talk to him. He's just toying with you. He doesn't have guests often, you know. You'd be a fool to take the job for under a million, and he knows it. We'll work something out that's more reasonable."

The room spun once before Ben steadied himself against the wall. "Um...okay..."

"He also told me you agreed to join our...well, our club."

"That's right. He said you and Fiela would sponsor me, whatever that means."

"A mere formality. Look, I wanted you to know that there are some clothes and shoes in the closet which should fit you. I know you had to leave in a hurry this morning and didn't bring much with you. Fortunately, Ridley's guests are a demanding lot, so he always keeps some items on hand. I'm telling you this because Ridley is old-fashioned and normally dresses up for dinner."

"I thought they only did that in old movies."

"Old movies and at Steepleguard, I'm afraid. I hope it's not putting you out, but would mind checking to see if there's a dinner tux that fits you?"

"A dinner tux..." mumbled Ben, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn't sure he knew what one looked like.

Apparently sensing the man's uncertainty, Lilian said, "I'll send a manservant to your room to help you select something, if you like."

"Um, yeah. Thanks. That would be good."

"Six o'clock then?"

"Six it is," said Ben, and he heard Lilian click off.

He stared at the receiver his hand for a long minute, trying to come to grips with the surreality of the past twenty-four hours. He had spent almost every day for the past year sitting alone in his tiny office with his nose buried books, scribbling out notes, worrying about bills, and wracking his brain as he tried to figure out a way to gain clients. The most exciting thing that had happened to him during that time was a flat tire on the interstate.

But in the short span of two days he'd picked up the most significant assignment of his life, been involved in a police killing, just avoided being infected by the deadliest disease known to man, escaped an army quarantine, and been asked to join a secret society he'd never even heard whispers of.

Oh, and he was _probably_ fugitive.

Out of curiosity, he punched the zero button on the phone to see if an operator would pick up.

Nothing happened. Ben hung up, tried 411.

Still nothing. There wasn't even a dial tone.

Weird, he thought. Maybe it's only a house phone?

He stepped into the main room and looked around. There were two other telephones, one on a table next to the bed and another on an ornate desk in a far corner of the room. They looked like they were the same make as the one hanging on the wall in the bathroom. Ben, tightening the towel around his waist, walked into the bedroom and tried both. Again, no dial tone.

Surely Ridley would provide phones for his guests. How could the rich bastard offer them everything else, to include even clothes, but not phones?

Ben rolled this mystery over in his head a few times before deciding that Ridley hadn't bothered to run telephone wires to every room because there wasn't a reason to. Lilian had said he rarely had guests. What would be the point? The hotel had been closed when telephones were still a novelty. Presumably, there were telephones in central locations, like the Grand Hall, which could be used to contact the outside world. Lilian had told him there were landlines, hadn't she?

Ben shook off his concern and wandered back to the bathroom. It's not like he had anyone to call, anyway.

# 17

It was nearing five o'clock, and Ben stood next to one of the fireplaces in the Great Hall sipping from a green bottle of mineral water. He wore the dinner tuxedo that Ridley had provided him, which consisted of a black coat and pants, a white (and highly starched) dress shirt, a white vest, and a white bowtie. The manservant that had helped Ben dress was a godsend since the cufflinks confounded the researcher, who was also incapable of tying a bowtie. The shoes the servant had slipped onto his feet were Italian and as comfortable as a broken-in pair of sneakers.

Ben marveled at how long it took to get appropriately dressed for dinner, even with the help of someone who knew the secrets of men's formal wear. It was insane. All that work so that he could sit at a table and _eat?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Lilian descending one of the giant staircases. She wore a magnificent little black dress that faithfully transferred every underlying curve to the surface. Around her neck was a platinum bib necklace riddled with rubies and emeralds. Her slightest movement set off a fireworks display. Ben tried to avoid ogling her, but he knew that she knew the impression she made.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"I liked it very much."

"I am pleased to hear you say so." She stepped closer, reached out, and adjusted his bowtie a millimeter. "You're looking very dapper."

"It's the butler's doing."

Lilian smiled. "It's the man, not the tux, that matters."

Ben, smelling her perfume and sensing her body heat, cleared his throat in an effort to break the woman's spell.

"So," he said, "what exactly is required for me to join this snooty club of yours? Ridley said that you and Fiela would sponsor me, but I'm not sure what that means."

"Ah," she said, looking away. "That is rather tricky. I'll need you to humor me."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "I hope there's no paddling involved."

"Nothing like that," she said with an unsteady smile. "Not at first, anyway."

Seconds passed.

Ben shook his head and chuckled. "Just _tell_ me, Lilian."

The woman put a palm on his chest and twiddled her fingers. "We need to get married."

Before that could register, she added hurriedly, "A purely _ceremonial_ marriage, Ben."

Ben, eyes wide, said, "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning, it's just _pretend_. There will be no priests, judges, or justices-of-the-peace involved. The marriage will not be recognized by any state or nation. No paperwork will be filed at any courthouse. We will be like two actors exchanging vows in a play."

Ben thought about this. "That's a peculiar ritual. An imaginary marriage? I don't get it."

"Yes, it is odd, but you see, there are only two ways one can enter the Nisirtu - our society, that is. The first is to be born into the society, and the second is to marry into it. There are no guest passes. If you agree to become my _mutu-_ "

" _Moo-too_? What's that?"

"It means 'husband' - a _purely ceremonial_ husband. You see, our society's bylaws can't be changed, so long ago we had to find ways to work around them. This is just one of the ways we devised to bring new blood into the organization. If you do this, you will have the same rights as me. You can study the tablets and read all the musty secret books in Ridley's library, for example. Even the forbidden ones."

Ben's ears perked up at _musty secret books_ and _forbidden_. He knew something about such books, and he imagined Ridley had an excellent collection of them. "What does this 'purely ceremonial' marriage entail?"

"Oh, it's quite simple. All that's needed is a dowry. A gift from the bride's father to the groom."

"Real father or pretend-father?"

Lilian grinned. "Real father, in this case. Obviously, he must be a member of the Nisirtu, as well."

"That's rather antiquarian."

Lilian looked mildly offended. "Is it, really? When the father of a bride pays for a wedding, he is essentially paying a dowry. The Nisirtu have the same custom, except that the dowry comes in the form of a gift."

"We're not talking money, I hope."

Lilian narrowed her eyes. "Oh, no. Never. The Nisirtu do not use money. We do not even talk about it unless dealing with non-members. We consider it extraordinarily rude to mention money in polite company."

Ben laughed in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me. You don't _use_ money? I can't even imagine what that means!"

"That is something I can explain to you later. It's immaterial at this point."

"But what kind of dowry can there be, other than money?"

"It must be a right or authority. That is the stock in trade of the Nisirtu. My father must grant you a right or some form of authority."

"You told me you were an orphan. Your father is..."

"Dead," she said, nodding. "Yes, that would normally be a problem." She raised a single finger into the air. "However, I have a solution."

"Of course you do," said Ben matter-of-factly, but by then Lilian was walking out of the room.

"I'll be right back," she said over one shoulder.

Ben fell into a nearby chair. _A purely ceremonial marriage?_ Things were moving far too fast. He hadn't had sufficient time to analyze any of what he had seen or heard in the past thirty-six hours. Despite evidence to the contrary, he still half expected to see a camera lens poking through the room's curtains, proof that he was a victim of some reality show hoax.

A few minutes later, Lilian returned holding an ivory chest encrusted with a rainbow of precious stones. It was the size of a small music box. The edges were lined with gold, but the hinges and clasp appeared to be iron. She set it down on the coffee table in front of Ben with something like reverence. Then she stepped out of her shoes and knelt at the end of the table, at the foot of Ben's chair, and pivoted the box so that the clasp was facing him.

"This belonged to my father but was left in my care when he...when he died." There was a slight tremor in Lilian's voice. She cleared her throat, smiled apologetically, and reached over and opened the chest. Inside was a faded blue velvet cushion and on top of that, an enormous ring.

"It was his signet ring," Lilian said in a low voice. "His was the last hand ever to touch it."

"It's stunning," Ben said under his breath, leaning forward. The golden loop was a half-inch thick and heavily inscribed with Cuneiform-like symbols so small and intricate that he would need a magnifying glass to make any sense of them. The bezel, which seemed to be made of a harder metal, was the size of a quarter and bore rows of additional symbols and characters. Ben marveled at the superb craftsmanship and the ring's imposing character.

He said, "These characters appear to be a version of Cueneiform, but not one I recognize."

"Its _Cuneiform-Nouveau,"_ replied Lilian. "That's what we call it, anyway. It's centuries old, but we still refer to it as the modern version."

"There is no modern version of Cuneiform."

Lilian laughed. "Says the man looking at it."

Ben frowned but decided to follow up on that topic later. "This must be ancient."

"The bezel is not, replied Lilian, "but the ring is _quite_ ancient. It has a storied history. Today, you are part of that history. I am giving it to you."

Ben was taken aback. Looking at her, he said, "Lilian, no. This should be in a museum."

"No, it is the ring of a Nisirtu. I cannot put it on display."

"But it must be worth a fortune."

"Not to me, Ben. I cannot sell it, and I cannot trade it. Do not focus on the ring's antiquity or historical significance. Those qualities are unimportant."

"Maybe to you, Lilian, but to someone like _me_ those qualities are very important. Besides, isn't giving me a valuable ring the same thing as giving me money? It seems hypocritical to say the Nisirtu don't use money but then to give away items that are worth a fortune."

Lilian shook her head. "No. It is not the ring's monetary value that is important. It is the inscriptions that matter. Though the ring is ancient, my father added the bezel with the inscriptions. He had it added for a son who was to succeed him. An anticipated son that was, sadly, stillborn. The inscriptions grant the bearer of this ring my father's authorities."

Ben hesitated. "What authorities? I mean, what authorities can a dead man have? I'm sorry to be frank, but-."

"No, you're right, in most ways. But this ring gives you one authority - and a notably appropriate one. It gives you the authority to act in his stead to approve my marriage." She raised her eyebrows. "That is a pleasant coincidence, don't you think? My father gives you his authority, through this ring, to approve my marriage, and thus the dowry is paid, and we may marry. We kill two birds with one stone."

Ben meditated on her words. "You mean, if I accept this ring, I am both accepting a dowry and giving myself permission to...well, anyway, that's a tangled web, isn't it?"

"Yes, but perfectly legal, according to our bylaws. You must keep in mind, Ben, that we are speaking only of a ritual relationship. Nothing more. Members of other orders, ones you are more familiar with, address one another as 'brother' or 'sister' without any fear that the government might construe such titles as literal."

Grimacing, the man said, "True, but 'brother' and 'sister' are very different from 'husband' and 'wife.' Putting that issue aside, I have another concern."

"What?"

"The Delphic Order of the Nisirtu appears to be very exclusive. Even if I accept the ring, I find it difficult to believe that you could bring me, a stranger, into that kind of society. I could be a spy. I could reveal everything I learn to the press. Why would others in your organization take that chance?"

"You're right, Ben. It's unusual for a marriage to a non-Nisirtu to be approved. Detailed background checks are necessary. It is not unlike being screened for a top-level security clearance in government."

"Well, there you go."

Lilian regarded him, pursed her lips, and looked away. She tapped the coffee table with a manicured nail.

When she looked back at him, he knew. "You've already had me screened."

"Yes," she admitted. "You passed with flying colors. Congratulations. You're quite trustworthy."

"This was planned, then."

Lilian looked at him intently. "Everything in my life is planned. There is no time for trial and error."

"I don't get it."

"You will." _But not this very moment_ , her expression told him.

"Okay, what about Fiela? Ridley said that I need _both_ of you to sponsor me."

"She will. Every member is allowed to sponsor one person. She has not done so yet, so is available to you."

"She's agreed to that?"

"Oh yes, in advance, though she didn't know it was to you she'd be attached, specifically. Ridley has in his possession what amounts to a general power of attorney for his niece. He can authorize the..." She seemed at a loss for words.

"Sponsorship?" suggested Ben.

"Yes, thank you. Sponsorship," parroted Lilian, looking relieved and embarrassed.

The man said, "I still think she should okay this _personally_."

"Ben, she already has. Trust me. It's simply a sponsorship. It means little."

"Yeah, but this is getting a little weird. Weirder, I should say."

"A little weirdness seems a small price to pay to study Ridley's tablets and to become wealthy beyond your wildest dreams."

She had a point, the researcher realized. Joining the Nisirtu could open a lot of doors for him. And a six-hundred thousand dollar payout was at risk. Maybe more. Too, he needed Lilian and her comrades as allies. He was, after all, on the run from the police. He pinched the bridge of his nose and thought for a long moment.

"Okay," he said at last. "I will accept the ring. Temporarily. I'll return it to you when my study of the tablets is complete."

Lilian didn't respond, which he opted to interpret as acquiescence.

He reached into the box on the table and touched the ring experimentally, as if it might shock him, but it was merely a cold piece of metal. He exchanged a last look with Lilian before pulling the ring from the box and placing it on his finger in a quick, fluid motion.

"Done," he said victoriously, as if he'd successfully ripped a bandage from his skin without screaming. He inspected the ring. "Huh. Look at that. A perfect fit."

Lilian touched the ring delicately. "Do you approve the marriage?" she asked.

Ben was momentarily at a loss. "What? Oh...right. Yes, I, um, 'approve' the marriage."

A warm breeze swept through the room. A door somewhere above slammed shut.

Lilian said, "Then I welcome you to the Nisirtu."

# 18

Ridley, Lilian, and Ben were already seated at a massive dining table when Fiela entered the room. She wore a dress similar to Lilian's, but it was as red as her hair and cut scandalously low. Around her neck was a delicate silver necklace studded with rubies. Her long hair was elaborately coifed and held atop her head with an ornate silver pin.

Ben was stunned at the transformation. Up to this point, because of his first impression of her at the coffee shop, and her demeanor and attitude since then, Ben had come to view Fiela as more of a teenager than a woman, though she had told him she was twenty-two. But the sultry curves of the person who sauntered into the dining room belonged to a woman. She radiated sexuality in the same way the Lilian radiated class, though both women were beautiful.

The spell was only broken when Ben noticed the girl was barefoot.

_There we go_ , he thought to himself. _That's the Fiela I know._

He stood and pulled an empty chair back from the table. Fiela graciously accepted the seat, sitting and rewarding him with a beautiful smile and a grand view into a glorious valley full of shadow.

"Thanks, " she said, and Ben returned to his seat.

"I'm glad you found time to join us," Lilian said, but not too harshly.

"Sorry," Fiela replied, placing a napkin in her lap. "I couldn't find any shoes that went with my dress."

"A fine story," said the other woman. "Somehow you never can, despite having hundreds of pairs at your disposal."

"But none of them are comfortable," Fiela retorted.

Sensing an odd tension between the women and seeking to diffuse it, Ben said, "Ridley, perhaps now we can discuss tablets?"

The old man took a sip of his wine. "Oh, of course. Shall we start with the legend surrounding them."

"Please."

"Very well. The legend is that they were discovered in a place now called Tiwanaku, in the Bolivian Andes. You're familiar with the location, I believe."

"Of course. It's the location of some large stone structures that conspiracy theorists believe were built by aliens. I once led a small team there to inspect some inscriptions."

Ridley nodded. "Yes, I know. That is one reason I selected you for this job. Anyway, the story goes that several hundred years ago the region was ruled by a king called _Pumuk_."

"How many hundreds of years?"

Lilian turned towards him and said good-naturedly, "Ben, this is a legend, not an excerpt from a textbook. He has no idea."

"Sorry. I'm detail-focused. Go on, Ridley."

The old man did. "One day King Pumuk was told that a strange man dressed in odd yellow garments was requesting an audience with him. The king, curious, went to meet the newcomer, who was a pole of a man with flesh stretched taut over his bones and large, unblinking eyes.

"The arrival introduced himself as _the Sillum_ \- 'the Unseen.' The Sillum said he had come to Tiwanaku because his god had directed him to build a gateway through which its minions could come into the world and take possession of it. The alignment of the stars dictated that the portal be built in Tiwanaku. The Sillum said that he would require the king's population to be enslaved for that purpose because the design parameters were unforgiving, the schedule pressing, and movement of megalithic stones a necessity."

"I'm guessing the king wasn't receptive to the request."

"Your guess is correct. King Pumuk was outraged. How dare a stranger come to his kingdom demanding that his people be enslaved to build a portal for a foreign god! The king directed his guards to arrest the Sillum, but as they moved to obey, the stranger spoke and the guards turned against their own king and slew _him_ , instead."

"What did the stranger say?"

"It is said he spoke but a single word."

"What was it?"

Ridley shrugged. "The legend doesn't tell us. But he spoke it in what the legend calls the 'angelic tongue.' A sort of primeval language, spoken only by the gods. Its power was such that everyone within earshot of the Sillum instantly fell under the stranger's spell. In due course, the man had the entire population constructing giant stone buildings, walls, and the gateway itself, upon which the Sillum attached tablets with cryptic writings. He said the tablets contained the history of his god and foreign lands and the workings of the universe and that it was written in the language of the heavens."

"Wait a second...what did this portal look like?"

"I think you've already guessed that."

"The Gate of the Sun?"

"Just so."

"That's where the tablets in your possession are allegedly from, then? They were affixed to the Gate of the Sun?"

"That's what legend says, yes."

Fiela said, "I don't get it. What was the portal for? Where did it go?"

"We don't know where it led," replied Ridley, raising a finger into the air. "We only know what emerged from it."

"What?" asked Fiela.

"Monsters."

Fiela looked dubious. "There's no such thing."

"Well," said Ridley, "according to the legend, yes, there are. You see, the Sillum conducted a ceremony and begged his god to send armies into this world to claim it in his name. The god answered the call and sent its vassals through the portal in the tens of thousands. Hideous beasts that sent the population fleeing. Yet almost immediately after emerging from the portal, they began to die - all of them, with horrific cries of alien pain and anger. Their corpses began to decay, to stretch and bloat and burst into thousands of pieces. Every inch of the ceremonial site was blanketed by a foot of purple and pink slime that smelled worse than..." He stumbled, at a loss for words.

"Rotten eggs?" suggested Fiela, scrunching her nose and staring at her mashed potatoes.

"If you like."

"What happened next?"

"With a howl of frustration, the stranger passed through the portal to the land of his god. His priests - locals who had adopted his god of their own free will – fled into the jungle. Most were tracked down and killed."

Fiela said, "Wait - why did the monsters explode?"

Lilian rolled her eyes. "Truly, Fiela? What does it matter? It's just a fable! Maybe because they were evil and evil must always be vanquished in such tales."

Ben said, "Or maybe the native gods destroyed the invaders because they didn't want some new god on their turf. The entire legend was probably created by the priest class as a warning against the worship of foreign gods. It's a common theme in most religious mythologies."

Fiela considered this. "Yes, you're right. It is the same with my gods."

Ben did a double-take. _"_ How many do you have?"

The girl huffed. "I don't know. Like a hundred, maybe? But they're pretty worthless. I mean-"

Lilian interrupted her. "Let us not talk about religion at the dinner table, Sister. It makes for poor conversation."

She leaned over and whispered to Ben, "She's been exploring a lot of religions, lately. It's just a phase. Last year she was into Wicca, and this year it's some Nordic thing. Next year it will probably be a Jedi thing. She's been watching too many movies."

"Oh," Ben said. He'd done some religious explorations himself when he was a young man. Who didn't?

Luckily, that was all behind him.

# 19

The man stepped out of his cottage and scanned the courtyard that separated his residence from Steepleguard. Seeing no movement, he walked around the cottage twice, slowly, scanning the hills and trees on either side of the building in the same careful manner. Satisfied that none of the staff were nearby, nor any of the residents of Steepleguard, he returned to his office, locked the door, and closed the curtains.

He moved the chair that was normally positioned behind his desk to the center of the room. Returning, he knelt and removed a loose floor plank, revealing a shoebox-sized cavity beneath. In it were a pistol, several magazines, and a satellite phone. He withdrew the phone and stood, punched in a number and waited.

"Frontier Muffler and Car Repair," said a woman on the other end. She sounded bored and somewhat annoyed. "How may I direct your call?"

"I'd like to have my tires rotated," replied the caller.

"What kind of vehicle is it?"

"A 1992 Peujot 106."

There was a pause. "You poor soul."

"It gets me where I need to go," replied the man.

Another pause, followed by a faint beep. "Please hold."

A minute passed before a voice on the other end of the line said, "Yes?"

The man looked once more about the room before saying, "I have news."

# 20

The terrors arrived early that night.

Lilian held her violin.

"Ben, I'd like to introduce you to a few friends," she said.

Ben stepped onto the creaky wooden floors of the room, which looked something like Lilian's music room at her mansion, except that algae-coated obelisks had replaced the walls. Sitting upon a faded red settee were a man and woman of advanced years. The man wore a black wool suit and a red-banded hat of a kind popular in the 1940s. He was small, and the skin above his starched collar was dry and peeling.

The woman wore a black wool dress and around her neck several strings of the largest pearls Ben had ever seen. She was bald. Both man and woman had murky gray eyes. They were stone-faced and nodded as a unit when he approached.

"A pleasure to meet you both," said Ben, not extending his hand because he did not want to touch them. There was an unpleasant smell in the air. The room smelled like - what, _dirt?_

A film of water covered the floor.

"Ben," said the man in a raspy, pack-a-day voice, "Ridley has told me about you."

"Yes," said the ancient, bald woman.

"I am Douglas Carter. This is Eleanor Dembrowski."

Putting his hands into his pockets, Ben looked at Lilian, expecting her to say something, but she was looking at the floor, her violin dangling at her side. She seemed oddly detached.

Ben said, "Have you come far?"

"Oh yes," said the ancient woman. "Quite far."

"Quite far," agreed the man.

"Where are you from?"

The woman said, "An island. In the Pacific. You've never heard of it. It's remote and practically a wilderness. We got it when the war ended."

"You live there alone?"

"Oh, we don't live there," said the man. "It's where we're from."

The woman said, "Lilian, you'll play for us."

Lilian put the violin to her shoulder and wordlessly complied. As she played a gray tentacle curled up one of the obelisks and became taut, as if the thing it was attached to was preparing to pull itself up from the depths.

"Well," said Ben, noting that no one else in the room seemed bothered by the giant slimy appendage, "where do you live now?"

"We're retired. We move around," said the woman.

"We go where we're needed," said the man.

Ben said, "A working retirement? What did you do before?"

"We were astrologists," the two said in unison.

Ben began a slow retreat. Everything felt wrong. Very, very wrong.

"Astrology...interesting."

"Yes, it is the noblest of sciences," the woman said.

"Do you want to know why we retired?" asked the old man with an evil grin. His teeth were brown and rotting.

"Um, sure," replied Ben.

The ancient woman rasped, " _There was no future in it!_ "

She burst into laughter. It was the laughter of the insane, a high-pitched cackle that went on and on. Lilian began to play her violin faster and louder, torturing the instrument. Her music, like the woman's laugh, was nothing but screeching madness.

Ben turned to run and saw the eye of the thing from below in front of him, yellow and mindless and evil.

_"There's no future in it, human! No future!"_ screeched the couple.

Ben felt the tentacle around his legs as Lilian dropped her violin and jumped into the abyss.

"Good to meet you, Ben!" yelled the man in the hat as blood poured from the orifices that had once been his eyes. " _Don't be a stranger!_ "

"Ben!"

Ben jerked awake just in time to hear his last pathetic, cowardly moan. He opened each eye one millimeter. It was still dark. A dream, he realized. Was the voice a dream, too?

"Ben! It's me!"

Nope.

He opened both eyes and propped himself up with one elbow. Though the room was unlit, the figure in the doorway was silhouetted by ambient light from the hallway. Ben couldn't see her face, but he knew the form and, without a doubt, the voice.

"Fiela, what are you doing here?"

"I was walking by your room, and I heard you screaming."

Ben groaned, retrieved his watch from the nightstand and looked at the time. "You were walking by my room at three-thirty in the morning?"

She was slow to respond. "I wanted to make sure you were safe."

Ashamed and humiliated that she had witnessed his outburst, even indirectly, he said, "It was a nightmare. I'm fine. Go to bed."

Fiela took a single tentative step into the room, then stepped back into the corridor. "It wasn't a nightmare. It was a night _terror_. I can tell." She paused and said, "I have them, too. Do you have medicine for them?"

He groaned into his pillow. "No. I used to, but not anymore."

"Oh," she replied meekly, sounding disappointed. "Anyway, I should stay with you."

"Fiela, it's the middle of the night. Just go to bed."

"Can I just stay here with you?"

Ben sighed and wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes. He heard Haskell's voice in his head. _Just play along, Ben._

But Haskell had also said the Fiela was dangerous. Ben stared at the girl' silhouette and weighed his options. She could have killed him already if that's what she wanted to do, he realized. Last night, when he was drugged, for example.

"Okay," he said.

The girl stepped into the room, closed the door behind her and moved briskly to the bed, a wraith in the darkness. He heard a metallic clanking sound as she put something on the far nightstand. A gun, he imagined. Or a knife. Or both. The possibilities with this girl were endless, really.

"Lilian will find out about this, and she's going to get the wrong idea," he said.

"She probably already knows. Anyway, we'll both be good, right?"

"Right."

"I'll just lie down next to you and watch the door."

"Do as you like."

He felt the mattress bounce gently up and down and heard a shuffling noise.

"Fiela, are you taking your clothes off?"

"Of course."

"That's, um...unnecessary."

"Yeah," she agreed as slipped nude beneath the sheets. She wiggled backward until she was against him.

"You can put your arm around me," she said as if she were grudgingly conceding to an unspoken request. "On top of the sheets, though."

"Probably better if I don't," he countered.

"It's okay," she said with less bravado. "I get them, too. The terrors. I don't mind."

"You have nightmares?"

_"Terrors,"_ she corrected him. She rolled over to face him. "Every night _._ You get sweaty, right? And it gets hard to breathe sometimes, and your friends from the war come back to visit you, but they're dead, and they're not your friends anymore, and sometimes your family comes back..."

She paused before saying, quietly and as if to herself, "They point their fingers at you, and they're mad at you, but you don't know what you did wrong. But it doesn't matter because they're not your family. They don't even have faces."

Ben ruminated on her words. "Yeah," he said, at last. "Yeah, something like that." It wasn't exactly like that, at least not for him, but he did not doubt that Fiela was speaking truthfully of her own nocturnal experiences. She sounded very much like a person desperate for confirmation that she was not alone in her suffering.

Still, he hesitated. If he gave Fiela the impression that he liked her, and she then decided he _didn't_ like her, there was no telling what she might do.

She had knives.

"Can't you hold me?" she asked. "Please?"

He hesitated just a moment more. _Alright, Ben, time to man up. This girl's insane, sure, but she rescued you from a giant squid monster. Now you're going to make her beg you for a little reciprocal security? Pretty pathetic, buddy._

He put his arm on top of the sheet and around her. The sheet did little to conceal what lay beneath. She was soft - excruciatingly soft - in all the right places, but where her gender allowed some latitude, her body was like steel wrapped in layers of silk. He felt her reach down and clasp his hand, and he held his breath, knowing his weakness, but she simply pulled it upward and pinned it between her cheek and pillow.

"Just this," she said.

They lay together like that for several minutes before she whispered, "Did you ever get tired of war, Ben?"

"Tired? Yeah, that's one way of putting it."

"Even though you were winning?"

"It didn't matter. After awhile no one was sure what winning meant."

"I get tired, too," she said. "I was very young when it started. Me and my friends were sure we would win quickly. There were thousands of us, and we were brave and strong and proud. Now, most of my friends are dead. None of us thought the rebels would fight for so long."

As innocently as possible, the man said, "What war, Fiela?"

There was a moment of silence, then, "I'm sorry. I can't tell you. Not yet."

The man decided not to push his luck. "I'm sure you and your friends put up a good fight."

She nodded vigorously against his hand, which was suddenly wet. "We did. Three times I glimpsed the underworld." Her voice quivered. "Someday I will tell you of the battles. You will be proud of me."

"Proud? Fiela, you don't need to impress _me_."

"But you are the only one who will understand," Fiela objected. "Uncle and Lilian have never had to fight. You know what it is like. The chaos."

Ben grunted, not wanting to continue the discussion. Remembering the war meant remembering the car bomb and Eddie and the dog, and all were bait for the terrors. He could feel them sniffing around, even now

Fiela apparently sensed his tension. She kissed his hand and said, "Never mind. That was our past. You are tired, and I shall let you sleep. Goodnight, Ben."

"Goodnight," he said, and slept, and dreamt no more.

# 21

The four senior lords of the Peth-Allati met in a Nisirtu safe house in downtown Denver. The building was an abandoned church masquerading as a college textbook storehouse and was initially used by Peth-Allati from the Seven Houses when they needed a refuge from the Maqtu. That had been years ago, however, and the Maqtu were now effectively crushed, which meant the building was rarely required. Still, it was swept regularly by Peth security forces and kept ready for any contingency.

Moros was the last to arrive. He walked alone into the basement and took a seat at a collapsible table that was already occupied by three other men.

"Good evening, Lord Moros," said the man to his right, a Peth-Allati Lord of the Second Kingdom named Belusmar. He was an elderly and dignified man with thinning white hair and a sharp chin and was the only man present wearing spectacles. He wore a dark red shirt and held an ivory pipe in one palm.

"Good evening, Lord Belusmar," replied Moros. "Lords Nizrok, Disparthian," he added, nodding at the other two men as he pulled his chair forward.

Six of the remaining seven kingdoms had a Peth lord in charge of its military forces; the military leader of the Fifth Kingdom had been assassinated two-weeks prior and not yet replaced. Though the Nisirtu preferred to script Ardoon militaries to do their bidding, there were times when that was not possible.

Additionally, the Families were prone to warring against one another every few centuries and the unwritten rule was that scripts could not be used to settle civil wars since any slip-ups could expose the existence of the Nisirtu to their slaves. Instead, the wars were decided by the Peth-Allati of each house. Only the Maqtu had dared to violate this rule.

The Maqtu - _and_ Moros.

But Moros was the senior-most commander of the Seven's Peth and was allowed certain latitude. The other commanders, in descending order of authority, were Nizrok, Disparthian, and Belusmar. The two Peth lords not present were junior to these four men and had not been required at the meeting because they played no active role in the events that were about to unfold, though they were well aware of them.

Nizrok, Peth lord of the Fourth Kingdom, a middle-aged, balding man with eyebrows cut to resemble inverted V's, said, "Denver appears to be the epicenter of the world this week. No sooner had my plane landed than I was given a report that the Maqtu scripted the Ardoon police to kill Fiela only a few miles from here." The man was born in Ukraine but spoke Agati, as did the other men at the table.

"Yes," replied Moros in the same tongue. "It did not go well."

Disparthian, Peth lord of Sixth Kingdom, said, "She's quite skilled, isn't she? The Maqtu have chosen the wrong enemy." Disparthian was French. He was the youngest and most handsome of the collected men, blond with brilliant blue eyes and perfectly formed lips that ensured that he rarely spent his evenings alone.

"The slaves are worthless as warriors," observed Moros.

"I'm surprised the Maqtu found her," said Nizrok. "She's a phantom. She kills and disappears into thin air, again and again. Truly, I do not understand how she does it. My people think she has some weird magic at her disposal."

Disparthian pulled a leather case from an inside pocket and flipped it open to reveal a row of black cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth and mumbled, "It is skill, not magic. If the Maqtu were smart, they'd focus their efforts elsewhere. They have taken too personal an interest in killing her. That is why they are losing their war against us. They imagine that if they somehow manage to kill her, it will inspire their miserable troops to fight more heroically. Instead, their morale drops lower with each failed attempt. Utter stupidity."

"Also, costly," added Moros. "The Maqtu have been trying to kill her for years, and all they have to show for it is a mound of bloodless corpses."

"Where is she now?"

"I am told she is with Lilitu, in the mountains," said Belusmar.

Disparthian cocked an eyebrow. "Really? But why is she even here? I thought she was tasked to terrorize our enemies in Spain."

"That is a very good question," rasped Nizrok. "We must assume that she was summoned here by Lilitu."

"Toward what end?"

Moros answered. "It appears that Lilitu is attempting to restore her Family and gain its throne."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Belusmar.

Nizrok chuckled. "Is it? I wonder. Yes, she is the bastard daughter of a dead king. Her parole was designed to ensure the whore died childless, the end of Sargon's wretched line. She had no family to provide her dowry and should have been unable to wed. Today we have word that she _is_ married, at least in form. The contract is to be signed tomorrow."

Moros added, "I must admit, the woman is more clever than I thought. Lilitu has done the impossible - she has legally obtained a dowry and permission to marry from a deceased father, and," he snapped his slender fingers, "just like that, can produce children capable of renewing her father's royal bloodline."

"Who is her husband?" asked Disparthian.

"A slave."

Disparthian's eyes went wide. "What? That can't be!"

"It's true," said Moros, shaking his head with exaggerated gravity.

"What do we know of him?"

"Everything, of course, yet nothing of value. He was born a poor Ardoon of better-than-average intelligence and spent a few years in the U.S. Marines in Afghanistan for various spy agencies, though he never really knew which ones. He was wounded and honorably discharged. Afterward, he obtained some advanced degrees in ancient languages. He has become a prominent researcher in that field."

Disparthian looked bewildered. "But what does any of that matter to Lilitu?"

"Don't you see?" said Nizrok, scowling at the younger man. "It's Ridley's doing, not Lilitu's. Only the Great Sage would choose such a man."

"Toward what end?" asked the Frenchman.

"I assume that he seeks his own replacement. Since he is no longer allowed scribes, he will use Lilian's husband instead. The slave, let us admit it, is a smart man. He has interests that parallel Ridley's own. Whether Lilitu is impregnated is of no consequence to the scribe."

Belusmar relit his pipe. "The fact that Ridley has wed his great-niece, Fiela, to the Ardoon suggests he might also want his own bloodline preserved."

"Gods! Fiela is attached to the slave, also? It cannot be!"

"It is so," said Moros, hands outstretched.

Disparthian grimaced. "What a terrible waste. No one cares about the bloodline of a scribe. As for Lilitu, she is marked, and her father's former throne is occupied by a legitimate king. She has no army, and the Nisirtu would never, in a million years, accept a slave as king. It is a pointless arrangement in all ways. If the so-called Great Sage has orchestrated this freak show, he is senile and his plan foolish."

Moros raised a finger in warning. "Do not call Ridley foolish. When he was active, his _scenarios_ never failed, though many required thousands of concurrent scripts. Some of those scripts were fifty or even a hundred degrees removed from the desired outcome. Mind you, he wrote them without the use of computers."

Nizrok gave a reluctant nod. "The scenarios were so complex that there were whispers the old man was a god. Surely, it was said, no man could do in his head or with his little pegboards what today's most-advanced computers cannot do. Such projections are impossible. There is an almost infinite number of variables."

"Why was his life spared if he is so brilliant an adversary? Did he not serve King Sargon? I was told that all the king's allies were killed after the madness overtook him."

Moros answered. "He assisted in Sargon's capture and, at any rate, was too admired to kill. There was fear of a revolt among the other scribes if he was harmed. That is why he was not only spared but afforded privileges. Lilitu and Fiela would be dead if not for the scribe's intervention on their behalf. Allowing him custody of them was, in my opinion, a mistake." He crossed his arms, looking displeased. "He is up to something. I can sense it."

Disparthian shrugged. "I cannot imagine what. If Lilitu gives birth, we slay the child. If the Ardoon starts writing scripts, we slay the Ardoon. Neither can occur for months, and by then neither will matter. Lilitu does not even have guards."

"Untrue," observed Nizrok. "She has Fiela, now, doesn't she?"

Moros arched an eyebrow. "Does she?"

# September 23

> Dicit ei Pilatus: 'Quid est veritas?'
> 
> * * *
> 
> John 18:38

# 22

Fiela was gone when Ben woke the next morning. Sunlight was streaming through the bedroom's many windows, and when he checked his watch, he saw it was almost ten o'clock.

There was a knock at the door. Ben rose, put on his robe, and said, "Come in."

Two servants appeared, an elderly man and a middle-aged woman, both in immaculate domestic uniforms. Each carried a tray.

"Breakfast, sir?" asked the man.

"Oh - yeah, thank you."

The male servant motioned the woman to follow him to a table positioned beneath the large window that framed the mountains outside. The servants placed on the table a pot of coffee, a pitcher of orange juice, and a plate fried eggs and toast.

"Ah," said Ben, trying to conceal his disappointment. "Eggs and toast." He'd imagined being treated to a thick slab of bacon, a hill of pancakes, and maybe one or two giant pastries.

"Yes, sir," said the servant. "Miss Fiela indicated you preferred eggs and toast for breakfast. She prepared this meal herself. She said it would be a surprise."

"Definitely," the seated man mumbled, observing the leathery brown texture of the eggs. As the servants arranged the silverware, Ben ventured, "Mr. Fetch?"

"Yes, sir?"

_Score._ "Is Miss Stratton awake?"

"Yes, sir. She is downstairs."

"Any calls for me? Visits by people who wear uniforms and carry guns? Men with greased back hair wearing power ties and carrying briefcases?"

Mr. Fetch replied stiffly. "No, no one by that description, sir."

"Well, when they get here, you know where to find me."

"If you say so, sir. Do you require anything else?"

"A newspaper, maybe?"

"I'm sorry, sir. We only get those when Mr. Ridley requests them, and he hasn't. Would you like me to put in a request?"

"No. I'll talk to him later. That's all."

"Very good," said Mr. Fetch, who, the woman in tow, left the room.

Five minutes later, Lilian entered. She was wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck and blue jeans. Large diamond studs on the lobes of her ears sparkled in the morning sun.

"I hope you slept well," she said. She picked up a piece of toast from Ben's plate and nibbled on it. "Are you trying to reduce?"

"What?"

"Are you trying to lose weight? This breakfast is...well, _diminutive."_

"Not much of an appetite," he said. Directing her toward the chair opposite him, he said, "I plan to start my inspection of the tablets today."

"Of course. But first, the marriage contract."

"The not-legally-binding marriage contract, you mean."

She sat down. "Just so."

"When?"

"In an hour, if that's okay?"

"The sooner we get it over with, the better."

"In celebration, I thought you, Fiela and I might go to a small park a few miles up the road and have picnic lunch. Then I'll bring you back, and you can examine the tablets."

"Have you talked to your lawyers about the mess we're in?"

"No, not yet. I tried to call earlier, but there was no dial tone. Ridley says that the line has been unreliable lately."

"I don't understand. It's a landline. What would make it _unreliable?"_

"He says they're upgrading a telecommunications hub - or whatever you call it - a few miles outside the gate. It's our only connection to the outside world. Ridley sent Mr. Fetch to talk to the responsible company, but they're not sympathetic since only Steepleguard is affected."

"Was he told when the outage would end?"

"It should only be a few days."

"What's the plan, then? There's no point in us buying time for your lawyers if we're not using it."

"I've thought of that, of course. I wrote a letter explaining everything to my personal attorney and gave it to Mr. Fetch. He's on his way to Denver with it now. My attorney will do some research and then pay us a visit. It's nothing to worry about."

"I'm guessing the internet is down, then."

"Yes, of course. The telephones and modem share the same line. There's no fiber or cable here, you know."

"Ridley should look into satellite internet."

"Possibly, but he doesn't use his computer much, and it's never been a problem before now."

"I'm guessing he doesn't have a satellite phone?"

_"_ Why would he? He's a recluse and, as I said, he's never had problems like this before."

Ben considered this. "Why didn't Ridley go into town? He knows what's going on, and the police aren't looking for him. Wouldn't that have been better than sending a letter by courier?"

"He can't. You've seen him. He has serious health issues. The trip would be very hard on him. It makes much more sense for my lawyer to come here than to send an old man down the mountain just so that he could come back up it the next day. What would that accomplish?"

Ben crossed his arms. "So...you're saying we're unable to communicate directly with the outside world."

"For the moment. But what does it matter? You've got work to do, don't you? Can't you survive a day without a phone or the internet?" She shrugged. "Personally, I view our situation as a blessing. I could use some peace and quiet, and this is one of the few places either are available."

Before he could reply, Fiela walked into the room. She wore a pair of denim shorts and a tank top. Her red hair was tied into a ponytail.

"Good morning," she said, striding over to Ben and hugging him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fiela, you can drop the pretense," said Lilian, "I know you were here last night."

"Oh."

"Nothing happened," Ben offered lamely. "We just slept together."

"I'm sure."

"It's true," said Fiela, grabbing the other piece of toast from his plate. Ben threw his napkin on the table. "But he did have a raging erection all night. It was like sleeping with a baseball bat taped to my ass."

"Fiela!" said the other woman loudly, and Ben felt the girl recoil against his shoulder. "You forget yourself. You are behaving like a spoiled brat. You sneaked into Ben's room and crawled beneath his sheet uninvited, and now you mock him in front of me?"

The girl moved behind Ben. "I'm sorry," she said. "But I wasn't _mocking_ him. I said 'baseball bat.' How could that be mocking him?"

Lilian rolled her eyes. "Do you think your language is appropriate?"

"No," Fiela murmured, head bowed.

Lilian glanced at Ben's troubled expression, and her demeanor softened. In a less maternal tone, she said, "We'll talk later. For now, tell the servants to prepare a picnic lunch for us. We're going to the park. The one that overlooks the valley."

"A picnic?" Fiela asked, sounding a little less chastised. "I should like that."

"Then get to it."

"Yes, Sister." Fiela kissed Ben and hurried out of the room.

"I wasn't offended," said Ben. "As for her coming here last night...well, you know she has PTSD, right? Some form of it, anyway. She just didn't want to be alone."

The woman looked unconvinced. "Was she naked?"

When Ben didn't answer, Lilian crossed her arms. _"Mm-hmm."_

# 23

The room in which they met to review the Nisirtu contract was modest. There were no windows, and tall oak and mahogany bookshelves concealed every wall, the volumes on the shelves clad in leather bindings with spines bearing gold letters. Scattered about the room on various tables were maps, compasses, pens, and abstruse wooden platters that Ben thought resembled Chinese Checkerboards. Papers cluttered the floor.

A desk with a black granite top dominated the room. Ridley sat behind it in a chair the size and style of a small throne, while Ben, Lilian, and Fiela sat on the opposite side. There was a thick blue candle on the edge of the workspace which Ridley lit with a disposable lighter.

He said, "The contract is ready for your review." He handed a stack of papers to each of his guests, saying to Ben, "I've prepared an English version for you."

"Okay," the researcher said. He pulled his reading glasses from a pocket and began to read the thick sheaf of papers Ridley had handed him.

It didn't take him long to realize that, English or not, the document was incomprehensible.

The second paragraph on the fourth page, for example, read, _"If the mutu knowingly permits the privations of the asatu's offspring, and those offspring were permitted by decree (of the pertinent House's committees) in time of war, but are disavowed by the asatu's parents as products of illicit and unauthorized acts of procreation having occurred outside the parameters of the war, the eldest of the offspring, if adult, shall represent the asatu unless it is shown that the offspring has been unduly influenced by a serretu to misrepresent the state of privation. Should misrepresentation of said nature be confirmed..."_

He could feel his eyelids drooping by the start of the fifth page, at which point he realized he was reading without actually reading. It was like studying a European social charter turned upside down. It was just words and more words and really, what did any of it matter? It was all secret society mumbo-jumbo, none of it binding.

Not signing meant the forfeiture of a million dollars, or whatever amount Lilian could talk Ridley into paying the researcher. Even six hundred thousand was incentive enough. That kind of money meant Ben could start over and do things right. He wasn't about to pass up this opportunity.

Still, he felt compelled to feign interest. "Can you explain these terms to me? _Mutu, asatu,_ and _serretu,_ for example. And this one - _Ardoon?"_

"Of course," replied Ridley. " _Mutu_ is husband, _Asatu_ is wife, and _Serretu_ is...hmmm." He put a finger to his chin. "I think the best definition would be 'second wife' or 'assistant wife.'"

"Oh," said Ben, with all the nonchalance he could muster. "The Nisirtu are polygamous?"

"Yes. Like our ancestors. Of course, this is only true within the confines of our society. It means nothing in the real world, so don't let it trouble you. You're not breaking any laws, obviously."

"Of course."

" _Ardoon_ means..." Ridley flashed his eyes at Lilian.

"Non-Nisirtu," she said.

"Exactly," agreed Ridley, looking very satisfied with her answer. "Non-Nisirtu."

"I see," said Ben, knowing they were lying. He'd already discerned that Ardoon meant _slave_. This was a society with some _very_ weird customs. But they were also paying his fee. He placed the document on the desk, nodding once at Ridley to signal his approval.

As the two women continued to study the contract, Ben busied himself reading the titles on the spines of the book on the shelf behind the scribe. Jorge Borges, Albert Camus, John Calvin, Edward FitzGerald, and HP Lovecraft appeared to the man's favorite authors, if the sampling was any indication. Rather an eclectic selection, the linguist thought.

A moment later, Lilian said something in Agati to Ridley that made Fiela look up. Ridley answered at length in the same language, pointing to his niece and counting on his fingers. Lilian seemed surprised and began to object, but the scribe cut her off by resuming his explanation, this time more slowly and with more emphasis. Fiela, looking very pleased, asked a question of her uncle. He nodded and looked back at Lilian.

"Would someone tell me what's going on, please?" Ben asked.

Lilian took in a breath and said, "Ridley requires that Fiela be made Serretu."

"What does that mean?"

Ridley said, "If Lilian is unavailable, Fiela will take her place as your primary sponsor. It provides for continuity."

Ben shrugged. "That doesn't sound like a big deal. You're both sponsoring me, after all. Am I missing something?"

Lilian lowered her eyes and said, "I'm sure it is inconsequential. I do not plan on becoming _unavailable._ " She defiantly placed her copy of the contract back on the scribe's desk. "The contract is acceptable."

A minute later, Fiela returned her copy, nodding.

"Excellent," said the old man. "Now, if you would each sign all three copies, we can move on to other things." He held out a fountain pen, and each did as requested. After the signatures were in place, he said to Ben, "As proof of the dowry, I will drop some wax next to your name, and you'll need to press the signet of your ring into the wax to make an imprint."

"Okay," said the other man, and watched as the scribe tilted the blue candle to drop a ball of wax next to each of his signatures. Before the wax could cool, Ben leaned over and pressed the signet into each.

"Well done," said Ridley, as if the researcher was a child who had just written his name correctly for the first time. Putting the papers to one side, the scribe leaned back and exhaled, rubbing his palms against the arms of his chair as if to dissipate built-up excitement.

"It is official," he announced. "I'll have these distributed to the other Houses immediately. Now, with regards to the reception-"

"Reception?" asked Ben.

"Yes. The people love a good show, and I think you two," he gazed at Fiela and Lilian, "merit more than a piece of paper, yes?"

"Thank you, uncle," said Fiela.

" _The people,"_ said Ben, worried. "You mean other members of the Nisirtu?"

"Nothing too fancy," said Ridley, not directly addressing Ben's question. "It will be a simple event attended by only a few close friends of mine. I took the liberty of sending out the invitations this morning. It will give you the opportunity, as a new member of our society, to meet other persons of... _consequence,_ let's say. It will be to everyone's benefit."

Before Ben could object, the old man said, "You know, you are, in a sense, my nephew now."

"How's that?"

"Fiela, my niece, is your surrogate wife."

It took a moment for the words to register. Ben replied carefully, "I didn't realize that Fiela would assume Lilian's title as well as her function. But...well, that's only in Lilian's absence, right?"

"Yes, but a serretu is granted the same rights as any wife. She may now call you Mutu, for example. _Husband."_

Seeing the girl peering around Lilian to look at him, the researcher just managed to lift the corners of his mouth. It was a Herculean effort.

"As serretu, she has now become Lilian's handmaiden - which is to say, personal assistant."

"I won't hurt you again, I promise," said the girl earnestly, apparently eager to step off on the right foot.

The scribe cleared his throat. "Good. Now, while the law does not require a dowry for a serretu, I stand in place of her father and would like to ensure she is well-cared for. I have, therefore, included a small gift for you in the contract."

Ben held up his hands in protest. "I don't think that's appropriate-"

"What did you give him, uncle?" interrupted Fiela excitedly, like a child on Christmas morning.

"Serretu!" warned Lilian.

"Oh, he's my uncle!" moaned Fiela.

"Just so," said the old man. "Ben, I am granting you the right to occupy Steepleguard for as long as you wish, and the authority to bequeath those rights. In fact, _all_ my authorities are yours. I am putting you in charge of this operation."

A cold chill ran down Ben's spine. "What operation? I'm in charge of _what?'"_

Clasping her hands, Lilian turned toward him and said, "He means we can live here, Ben. You are made the master of the estate. Isn't that wonderful?"

Ben said nothing, his face blank.

Lilian turned back at Ridley. "When shall this be effective, Scriptus?"

"This very moment," the man replied. "I included an addendum to your marriage contract that has made it official."

Ben had finally found his voice. "You're giving me Steepleguard?"

"No. You misunderstand. I am giving you _authority_ over it. But you need not worry about the Ardoon owner showing up to claim it. That is quite impossible."

Hoping to slow things down, Ben said, "Um, look, I don't want to seem ungrateful. This is beyond generous. Way, way beyond. But I really don't think I can accept-"

"It is done and cannot be undone," Ridley said firmly. "The contract is signed."

In a friendlier tone: "You are doing me a great favor, Ben. Steepleguard is too big for me. Always has been. I am ancient and will soon pass to the underworld. I can feel _Asag_ tugging at my ankles each morning. It is time for me to legally dispose of my rights."

Ben shook his head vehemently and help up his hands. "Look, I'm sorry, but I can't maintain a building like this. Or these grounds. It must cost a fortune, and I wouldn't even know where to start. Also, I'm sorry, but I'm not a hermit and don't intend to spend my life secluded in the mountains. I've got a job-"

"No, no, Ben," Ridley said. "That's all taken care of. Our society funds and arranges all maintenance and repairs. It is all done automatically unless you elect to intervene. You don't have to live here, either, of course. That would be an unimaginable burden to place on any young man. You merely have the _right_ to live here, and to bestow that right to others."

He nodded toward Lilian. "Your new Nisirtu wife, for example, or Fiela, or, well, _me._ It is much like owning a time-share, except that you can come and go as you please, and you have no responsibilities or debts."

Speaking slowly, Ben said, "To be clear, you are saying I don't have to do anything, and I do not have to pay anything, in relation to this 'gift.'"

"That's right. You see, by gaining authority, but not ownership, you are exempt from any property taxes and, because your name is known only to the Nisirtu, you have no liabilities."

_"None?"_

"None. Later, I will explain to you how to enforce your other rights if you elect to do so. Until then, you need do nothing at all."

Ben relaxed. He still had concerns, but Ridley's assurances diminished them. "Okay." Feeling a little embarrassed for looking a golden gift horse in the mouth, he added, "Thank you."

"We are, as always, in your debt," Lilian said, her earlier consternation with the man apparently forgotten. She dabbed at her eyes with a cloth. "My father would be pleased to find me returned to my family home."

The scribe nodded. "I know. You see, making Fiela _serretu_ was the only way I could justify granting this gift to Ben, and thus, indirectly, to you."

Sniffling, the woman said, "I am sorry for doubting you, Scriptus." She seemed on the verge of sobbing as she leaned into Ben's shoulder. The man, not knowing what to do, patted her hand. He felt like an idiot.

The scribe looked at Ben and winked. "Take good care of them, will you?"

# 24

After the contract signing, Ben returned to his room for a change of clothes and to answer the call of nature. But when he opened the door of his bathroom, he froze.

There was a man there, sitting on the marble counter, examining the label on a package of exotic soap.

"Pretty weird, right?" the man said, not lifting his head. He was dressed in an off-the-rack black suit and white shirt. There was a crumpled black necktie on the counter next to him. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, his face worn and tanned, his hair little more than a thin sheet of gray and white through which his scalp was plainly visible. Curiously, he wore black sneakers instead of dress shoes, and the soles appeared to be caked with mud.

Ben, shocked by the unexpected sight, said the first word that came to his mind. _"What?"_

The stranger tossed the soap into a wicker basket, reuniting it with its multi-scented comrades. "Weird, overpriced French crap. You might as well be rubbing yourself down with rose petals and sand."

Coming to his senses, Ben said, "Who the hell are _you?"_

The other man lifted himself off the counter with his hands and plopped his feet onto the floor. He was lean but powerfully built. "Everyone here calls me 'Mr. Fetch,' but that's what they call all the peons, in case you haven't noticed. The men, anyway. But you can call me Larry." He extended a hand. "Larry Haskell."

Ben ignored the gesture. "Why are you in my bathroom, _Larry?_ "

The intruder gave him a crooked grin as he lowered his proffered hand. "What if I told you I was with the FBI and I was here to take you downtown for being an accessory to the murder of two cops?"

Ben felt a sudden burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, but he hid his fear. "I'd say I have no idea what you're talking about."

The man named Haskell smiled. "Good answer. It's a lie, but a good answer." He crossed his arms and looked around the room as if he'd just teleported there. "Anyway, I'm not with the FBI. I'm with another agency that I can't name but which I believe you're familiar with."

Ben, his guard now fully up, said, "Yeah? Got some identification, Larry?"

Haskell gave Ben a "get real" look. "That wouldn't be prudent, would it? I mean, given that I'm here undercover. Besides, what would it prove? You couldn't distinguish a fake ID from a real one if I did it right. But I can understand why you'd be skeptical. Let me share a few things with you, and then you can decide whether I am what I say I am."

He moved toward the shower. "Would you mind closing the bathroom door? The walls have ears and all that."

Ben watched as Haskell reached into the shower stall and punched a button. Water began gushing from the several showerheads, and the drone of the water filled the room with white noise. Ben didn't like the idea of locking himself into the bathroom with someone who may or may not have sinister aims, but the stranger knew about the motel incident, which meant he could already ruin Ben's life.

Ben closed the door.

Drying his hands with a towel, Haskell said, "You're Ben Mitchell, age 32, honorably discharged from the U.S. Marines because of injuries and trauma sustained from an IED attack in Afghanistan. Your MOS was 2671, Cryptologic Linguist, Pashtu. You have no living family - you're the last branch of a dead tree..."

The man continued for another five minutes, accurately capturing every detail of Ben's life since he'd left the Marines, to include his time as a university professor, his failed relationship with a peer there, his efforts at freelancing, his financial problems, and much more. The man also knew about, and recounted the details of, Ben's childhood, to include the names of his parents, the schools he attended, the addresses he lived at, the subjects at which he excelled and those he struggled with, and even the names of his childhood friends – many of whom Ben barely remembered himself.

Ben had the unsettling sense that he was standing before Saint Peter at heaven's gate. His entire life was being described to him by a man he didn't even know. He felt somehow violated. It was wrong for anyone, even the government, to know as much about him as the man in front of him knew.

When Haskell was done, Ben said, "Okay, you know everything about me. So what? Most of that information can probably be bought on the dark web for ten dollars. It doesn't mean you work for an intelligence agency."

Haskell said, "C'mon, Ben. Be reasonable. Look, I'm not here to arrest you or get you into any trouble, and I'm not here to blackmail you. I've just put myself into your hands, knowing you could blow my cover by walking out that door and telling the Niz who I am."

"The 'Niz?'"

"The Nisirtu nuts. The folks who invited you here. The old man, Goldie, and Red. The people trying to get you into this so-called 'secret society' of theirs. Be honest. Don't you find this whole setup a little whacky? I mean, a secret society no one has ever heard of that descends from the ancient Babylonians?"

"Mesopotamians," Ben corrected him.

Haskell rolled his eyes and snorted, "It could be the Martians for all I care! It's a fairy tale. A smokescreen."

"Of course it's a fairy tale. The old man didn't pretend otherwise."

Haskell looked frustrated. "No, Ben. I'm not talking about the Mesopotamia crap. I'm talking about what you've been told the Nisirtu _really_ is: a society of rich people who have hired you to study a rock."

"A tablet," said Ben. "Several, in fact."

_"My point,"_ said Larry, "is that the Nisirtu 'rich secret society' story is as fake the ancient Babylonia story, or whatever the hell it is. It's a cover."

"For what?"

The other man crossed his arms and nodded once, approving of the question. "There you go. Exactly. _For what?_ That's what I know that you don't. You see, you've got sucked into a conspiracy much bigger than anything you can imagine, Ben. I mean, _big._ _International big."_

Ben managed a thin smile. " _International big_ , Larry? These people? An old man who's at death's door, a woman with a princess complex, and a girl who's got some serious psychological issues? You're telling me _these_ people are involved in an international conspiracy?"

Haskell shrugged. "Not just them. This goes way beyond those three kooks. This Nisirtu conspiracy involves hundreds of people – maybe thousands - in dozens of nations, some of whom are a lot more stable and many of whom are crazy smart. The three you know are just pawns." He extended a cheek with his tongue and gave Ben a conspiratorial look. "Any of them mention something called an 'apocalypse script' to you?"

"No."

The agent studied Ben's face. "No?" He waited a beat, then nodded. "Okay. I believe you. But they will, Ben. I don't know when, but at some point, you're going to hear those words. _Apocalypse script._ That's what this is all about."

"What is 'this,' exactly?"

"Their plan."

"What plan?"

"I don't know," Haskell admitted, briefly looking away. "If I did, I wouldn't be here. But 'apocalypse' is bad, right? _End of the world_ bad."

Ben laughed, amused by the absurd claim and his predicament. The last thing he'd expected this evening was to find a 'man in black' sitting on the counter in his bathroom reading soap labels and raving about international conspiracies.

He said, "You've got some fairy tale issues of your own, Larry. _Apocalypse_ does not mean 'end of the world,' except in a very narrow and strictly Biblical context. It _actually_ means 'unveiling' or 'revealing something that was hidden.' It is derived from an Ancient Greek word for 'uncovering.'"

Haskell blinked several times. Lifting his pants an inch, he said, "Okay, sure. That's what I get for playing word games with a linguist, I guess. Still, it's serious. I realize there's no reason for you to believe me now, of course. But you will. I just hope that reality slaps you in the face while there's still time for you to do something about it. These people are either terrorists or anarchists." He pointed at the ground. "Mark my word."

"Yeah? So why, exactly, did this allegedly super-secret band of clandestine anarchists bring me here? I'm a _linguist_ , for God's sake. An ancient languages researcher. I study ancient writing systems. Tell me how that plays into this fantasy of yours."

It was a long time before Larry replied. "You've got me there. I can't imagine why you would be useful to them. No one can. But you are. You _have_ to be. Maybe it's something you saw when you were in the Marines or someone you met. You had a top-secret clearance and did some classified work in Afghanistan. Maybe you've got some iota of knowledge buried in your brain that they desperately need and you just don't realize it. Maybe you know someone that need to get to. There _is_ a reason, Ben. You were sought out by these people and brought here for a reason."

Ben said, "Why should I believe you?"

"You have too, Ben. You can save a lot of lives. I'm serious." He lowered his head and seemed to contemplate what he should say next. A few seconds passed before he said, "Cage's disease isn't a _natural_ disease."

"What?"

"We think it was manufactured. It's too damn virulent and effective to be natural, and it popped up all over the world at once. We suspect that's just the start. We think the Nisirtu are to blame, and we think they've got more nasties planned. Dirty bombs are at the top of the list."

_"Jesus!"_

"We could use him, yeah. Until he shows up, we've got you."

Ben shook his head again. "Are you sure it's _these_ people you're after?"

"Maybe not them, but someone they know. Or maybe someone they can reach. We've got dots but no lines. The three who hired you might be up to their necks in real shit, or they might be dunces on the periphery. Either way, they're a lead. They're all we've got, Ben."

The other man took a moment to collect his wits. "I'm not saying I buy into your theory, but let's say I'm willing to play along. What do you want me to do?"

"Just what you said. Play along. Roll with things here. We've been trying to get an insider into this organization for years, Ben. No luck. But here you are, a former Marine and a man we can depend on, and they've put out the red carpet for you. It's like a gift from God. Do whatever it takes to stay in their good graces. Keep playing the sap and learn what you can about who they are, what they're doing, and, most importantly, who they know and what they're planning to do. Can you do that?"

"I don't know," Ben admitted. "I'm not a secret agent."

"You don't need to be. Most of the stuff you're going to see and hear is probably going to be nuts. They'd expect you to be a little skeptical. Don't worry about it. Just be yourself."

Haskell rechecked his watch. "I've been here too long. Look, the girl - Red - is deadly. Be particularly careful to stay on her good side. She was trained somewhere in Russia, we think, but got booted when she went off the rails in Chechnya or Syria or someplace like that. We don't know where exactly."

Haskell moved past Ben and opened the door to the bathroom. "Do me a favor and wait five minutes before you shut off that shower, will ya? I need to put some distance between you and me."

Ben pivoted and said, "Wait - where do you work? How do I find you? What's your... _cover?"_

Tying his tie, the other man said, "You wouldn't know it from this suit, but I manage the groundskeepers. I work out of a little building at the rear of the property." He grinned. "Funny thing is, my father was a groundskeeper in Sacramento. I used to work for him during summer breaks. I never figured I'd use my weed-pulling skills to save humanity, but that shows you how crazy this world can be, huh?"

He patted Ben on the shoulder. "Gotta go. Good luck!"

And he was gone.

# 25

Lilian employed Mr. Fetch - one of the many - to drive the three of them to the place where the picnic was to occur. Not surprisingly, Fiela insisted on sitting in the front seat, next to Mr. Fetch, to monitor the road for "suspicious activity." Ben had watched as she slid a pistol - a Glock, he thought - into a small handbag. The girl wore a pair of designer sunglasses with black lenses, though the skies were overcast. Ben and Lilian sat in the backseat.

They traveled along a twisting road and reached a heavily forested plateau that was surrounded by a brown mesh fence. A mile further down Mr. Fetch turned onto a gravel drive and the car passed between two thick, vertical wooden posts the size of telephone poles. Hanging between was a rustic sign that read, "Skyline Park Est. 1932."

About fifty yards past the main entrance was a small parking lot adjacent to a bluff from which Ben could see for miles. There was a hip-high concrete wall separating the parking lot from the edge, in front of which was a battery of shiny coin-operated telescopic viewers. Beyond the parking lot were trails that led to green areas with picnic tables and rusting grills shaded by interspersed cedars.

The driver brought the car to a halt in the middle of the lot. Ben glanced at his watch. The trip had taken exactly 22 minutes.

"Here we are," said Lilian.

"It appears we're the only visitors today," said Ben, stepping out of the car and offering her his hand.

"That's because the park was closed almost fifty years ago. Ridley bought the property from the state in the 1970s and restored it. No one comes here except his guests. We're still on the Steepleguard estate."

Mr. Fetch popped the trunk and pulled out two baskets with plaid napkins peeking out from beneath wicker lids. Holding them up for display, the servant said, "Champagne, chilled shrimp, crackers, caviar, sandwiches, and beer."

"What kind of beer?" asked Ben, offering to take one of the baskets.

Mr. Fetch politely shook his head, saying, "The kind you like, sir."

As the driver walked toward one of the picnic tables less favored by birds, Fiela opened her door and marched toward Ben and Lilian.

"I'm going to scout the area," she said.

"Knock yourself out," Ben replied.

When she was gone, Lilian said, "It will be difficult for her when I require her to give up her weapons."

"Why should she?" Ben asked, secretly hoping that the girl's disarmament would happen sooner rather than later.

"It's only appropriate. Today she is the serretu of man whose authorities come from a king. She is just a degree removed from being a princess."

"A princess?" Ben laughed, amused. "Is that what _you_ are?"

Lilian gave him a withering look. "I _am_ a princess. I am the daughter of a king."

Seeing her earnestness and not wanting to sour the day, Ben nodded. "Fine, you're a princess. What does that make Fiela?"

The woman's expression softened. She took his arm and the couple began walking through scattered trees.

"Fiela, as my adopted sister, is a duchess, though also a princess based on her marriage to you."

"Okay. What does that make me?"

"Ah, a good question. You are not a king, yet you wear a king's ring and you are married to a woman who merits the title of 'princess' but may not claim that title in public. You, sir, are an oddity."

"Not the first time I've heard that."

The two followed a trail that wound through tall, whispering grasses to a terrace with a concrete wall.

"This is a spectacular view," Ben said.

Putting an arm around his waist, Lilian said, "Yes, you can see almost the entire world from here. Or at least that's what I imagined as a child."

She removed a wisp of hair from her cheek and gave Ben a million dollar smile. "Now that you are one of us, there are things I can share with you about the Nisirtu. The legend, at least."

Thinking this was a good opportunity for him to gather information, as Haskell had asked him to do, Ben said, "Sure. Tell me everything."

"We believe that we are the descendants of the _Madihee_ , a nomadic tribe that originally migrated in and out of what are now Iraq, Syria and Iran five thousand years ago or so. Our ancestors bred superior horses that were capable of traveling further and faster than those bred by other tribes. They also developed primitive rope varieties of saddles and stirrups, though historians today would argue that neither existed in the period.

"At that time, wheat was being harnessed, and the region was becoming agricultural. The Madihee, however, remained nomads, and because the tribe was constantly on the move and had a wider range than other nomads, the tribe's horsemen were often paid to carry messages or small items between individuals and villages. Later, when cities and kingdoms were established, and armies began to march between them, they became the primary customers for the Madihee's services.

"Not surprisingly, the Madihee were also tasked with transporting contracts and maps. Demand was so great that our nomadic ancestors began recruiting members from other tribes, which extended the tribe's reach. Eventually, the network extended for a thousand miles in every direction from its epicenter. The Madihee diversified and began to navigate rivers and seas. The tribe was, in a way, the postal service of its era. As a result, the Madihee had the best translators, and those were especially useful to traders and monarchs.

"Now, unbeknownst to their clients, the couriers were providing copies of everything they transported to a cell of Madihee intellectuals in the city of _Ur_ called the _Nisirtu_. This internal cell of the organization was responsible for collecting, sorting, analyzing, and using the stolen information to the tribe's advantage. In this way, the tribe had advance-warning of who would war against whom, when taxes in various cities or kingdoms would be raised or lowered, who would be assassinated, what mines had been found or abandoned, what new technologies had been discovered, and so forth."

"Quite a sophisticated operation," Ben quipped.

"Yes, and successful. The Nisirtu worked day and night processing the information that was flowing in from every corner of their world. They were privy to newly discovered mathematical formulas, scientific principles, medicines, weapons - everything. They amassed huge libraries of maps and knew everything that could be known about the geography and cultures of the ancient world.

"In time, our ancestors used their insight to covertly obtain key positions within the various kingdoms, which enabled them to collect still more information. They became oracles, teachers, prophets, and advisors, yet, they remained in communication with each other via an invisible, internal network of messengers. That private network and the strategic placement of their spies made our ancestors virtually omniscient."

"Wait," interrupted Ben. "You're telling me that the Madihee had created a kind of...what? Ancient _internet?"_

Lilian squeezed him. "How clever you are! That's right. Oh, certainly, it was a very slow-moving version of the internet. A 'query' might take months to resolve instead of seconds. Still, the Nisirtu could obtain any type information it needed, from the movements of armies to the name of an obscure queen's favorite uncle's favorite food, simply by plugging the question into their 'machine.'"

"Amazing," said Ben, not believing the fable but liking the concept.

"It was," agreed Lilian. "In time, the Madihee horsemen faded away, as did most nomadic groups. The Nisirtu, however, survived as an independent institution. And it learned to do more than just _anticipate_ political and military events. It began to _steer_ them."

"How?"

"We began to write what we still call 'scripts,' manipulating people into doing what we require while convincing them they are acting of their own free will. A script is like a play where none of the actors know they are actors. The writers of these scripts are called scribes and are assigned the title 'Scriptus.' The Families dictate the objectives of the scripts. Scriptus Ridley is easily the most famous scribe in the Ten Kingdoms."

Ben's chest tightened. _Script?_ Wasn't that something Haskell had quizzed him on? _The apocalypse script..?_

Lilian continued. "As millennia passed, we grew our network of insiders and learned new ways to manipulate international events. We developed a variety of tools to predict outcomes given specific inputs. Mathematical and psychological models, for example. We learned to control entire populations. Our members became diplomats, advisors, holy men, courtesans, and the like."

"World leaders?" offered Ben.

"Rarely. We do not seek _overt_ power because overtness is weakness. Better to be the puppeteer than the puppet, even if the puppet is a king or a senator or a president."

Ben said, "I'm sorry, Lilian, but that's not a history. It's a conspiracy theory."

"Partially true," she responded evenly.

"Any chance I might see one of these scripts? Maybe just an old one?"

Lilian pushed out her lower lip. "Perhaps. It's up to Ridley. I'll ask him. But I don't think they'll mean anything to you. They're all in code."

"No problem," replied Ben as off-handedly as possible

He knew a little something about codes.

# 26

Ben turned when he heard the Mercedes pulling out of the parking lot.

Lilian said, "I told him to return to Steepleguard in order that you, Fiela, and I could be alone. There are some things we will discuss that he is not permitted to hear."

"Why not?"

"He's Ardoon, Ben. All fetches are. They don't know who we, the Nisirtu, really are, aside from a rich bunch of eccentrics."

Fiela was thirty feet away, sitting at a picnic table and looking at Ben and Lilian expectantly. The two strolled down the path to join her. When they reached the table, Lilian sat opposite Fiela, and Ben took a seat next to the girl so he could face Lilian.

Fiela handed him a beer and sandwich. Lilian opened a flat tin filled with caviar and searched through the basket for wafers.

As she was looking he said, "You mentioned 'Families.' Ridley told me that the Nisirtu was divided into 'Kingdoms.' I'm confused."

Lilian replied, "It's rather complex. There are ten kingdoms. A Family is in charge of each kingdom, also called a _House_. The terms _Kingdom_ , _House_ , and _Family_ are somewhat interchangeable."

"I assume, based on what you've told me, that you have people you call 'kings,' 'queens,' and so forth?"

Lilian began smearing caviar onto a wafer with a mother of pearl spoon. "You're right about the roles, but not the titles. Most often a king is called _Anax_ and a queen is called _Annasa_."

"What chapter are you..." Seeing Lilian's raised eyebrows, the man continued, "...are _we_ in?"

"We are in the Fifth, but don't let that mislead you. Fiela, here, is in the Tenth. All kingdoms exist in all places. A kingdom is defined by its membership and the Family that rules it, not by geographic boundaries. Just as the Ardoon of this country have Democrats, Republics, and Libertarians in every city, members from each of the Ten Kingdoms reside together across the globe."

Fiela, lowering her beer, said, "We're not united anymore, though."

"Oh?"

"Nope."

Lilian said, "The Third, Seventh, and Ninth Kingdoms are in rebellion. They desire independence. Those three kingdoms form what is called the _Maqtu_. The Houses in good standing are called 'the Seven.' You, Fiela, and I are members of the Seven."

"Rebellion sounds rather militaristic."

Fiela said, "It is the proper term. They war against us, and we war against them."

"Court battles, you mean."

Lilian laughed. "Exactly. But also, _not_ exactly."

Ben was about to ask the woman what she meant when Fiela spun a quarter turn and looked toward the sky.

"What's wrong?" asked Ben.

"There's a helicopter coming."

He and Lilian both looked in the same direction as the girl. Thirty seconds passed before Ben said, "As you sure? Maybe its-"

Then he heard the rotors, faint, but growing louder. He also heard an approaching car. Look toward the parking lot, he saw Lilian's car, Mr. Fetch at the wheel, coming to an abrupt stop in the parking lot.

"Time to go," said Lilian.

# 27

Ridley was standing in front of Steepleguard's main entrance when they arrived. As Mr. Fetch drove away, he approached the trio and said to Lilian, "Lord Moros is here."

"Who's that?" asked Ben.

Lilian said, "An old family acquaintance." She didn't look happy.

"Were you expecting him?"

"No. He spends most of his time in North Africa. He is a member of the Tenth Kingdom and the senior Peth-Allati lord of _all_ the kingdoms. He leads the Seven's wars against the rebels, which makes him a hero, but in truth, he's more like a senior member of the Gestapo. Charming but with a black heart."

"He's in the Great Hall," said Ridley, who appeared to share Lilian's unease.

The three entered the Great Hall, Ridley in front, Ben and Lilian behind him, and Fiela trailing.

There Ben discovered a tall, lean man waiting for them. The stranger's hair was greased back like Casanova's, and he wore an immaculate silk suit, shimmering black, though the starched white shirt underneath the coat was open-collared. His smile was radiant, his teeth perfect, and his eyes as silver as the moon.

"Lord Moros!" exclaimed Lilian, matching his smile, her arms wide. "What a pleasant surprise."

She rushed forward and embraced the man, and the two swapped cheek kisses.

"Good afternoon, Lilitu. Or is it _Lilian_ , after so many days among the Ardoon?"

"Lilian, if you please."

Moros shrugged. "Really? Well, as you wish. I'm sure may visit _is_ a surprise, and for that, I apologize."

Taking a step back, the man examined Ben and looked at Lilian inquiringly. "This is your new husband?"

"Ben," the accused said, extending his hand. Moros shook it firmly. He was wondering why Lilian also answered to the name _Lilitu_.

Ridley motioned at some sofas nearby. "Please, everyone, have a seat. I'll go find a fetch to prepare some refreshments."

As he departed, Lilian, Ben, and Fiela took seats on one sofa, Ben in the center, and Moros seated himself on another, opposite them. Lilian took one of Ben's hands and held it in her lap.

Ben said, "How did you know that Lilian and I were, um... _married?"_ He almost used air quotes but stopped himself.

Moros exchanged glances with Lilian. "Lilian, careful girl that she is, registered you as her fiancée a few hours after the incident at the motel to ensure you didn't become collateral damage in a script. It was a natural deduction on my part."

Ben felt Fiela stiffen against him. Lilian gave his hand a hard squeeze, which he took to mean, _"Don't talk about what happened at the motel."_

The researcher decided not to. Was Moros wired, he wondered? Was that the nature of Lilian's warning?

She said, "What brings you to Denver, Lord Moros?"

"Business."

"Oh?"

"Yes. These are, well, hectic times. The rebels are nearly defeated, but they have made a mess of things, as you know. I am meeting with some other Peth commanders to discuss our situation. Denver proved to be the most convenient location for us to meet."

He focused his gaze on a far wall, then, looking at Ben, said, "As to why I am here, at Steepleguard, I am here to meet you, Ben. I was surprised to learn that Lilian had such an impulsive streak. Marrying an Ardoon whom she only just met? It's not like her. You are, of course," he chuckled. "...quite the dish, but..."

He squinted at the signet ring on Ben's finger. It seemed to bother him. "Still, it was a surprise. Lilian is normally a very calculating woman."

"She still is," remarked Ben. He leaned forward a few inches and whispered, "Trust me."

"Yes, well, it seems rather unfair that dear Lilian knows so much about you - everything, I assume - yet you know so little about her. Almost nothing is my guess."

Ben, sensing the man was on a fishing expedition, merely smiled.

Moros said, "Perhaps I might break the ice. That ring you are wearing. It is her fathers. Has she told you of her family? Of the man who once wore it?"

"It is of no consequence," Lilian said, staring at Moros with cold eyes.

"Really?" The Peth lord replied. "Ben, do you think it is of no consequence that your new wife is the bastard daughter of a mad king?"

# 28

"It's true," Moros said, seeing the dumb expression on the other man's face. "Lilian is the illegitimate daughter of King Sargon, former ruler of the Fifth Kingdom. Her mother is a woman whose name has been erased from history - and believe me, Ben, when the Nisirtu wipe a name from history, it is thoroughly and completely wiped."

Before he could stop himself, Ben said, "What happened to King Sargon?"

Moros adjusted his watchband and shrugged, saying off-handedly, "He was chained to a stake at the bottom of some dingy pit where he shriveled up and died. I don't know where, but one pit is pretty much like another when you're wallowing around naked in your own feces with rats nipping at your genitals, eh?"

"Yes," said Lilian coolly, her face a mask of placidity. "But by then, he was quite insane."

Ben's expression darkened. He knew this was a game of some kind, but he thought the newcomer was taking things too far. Lilian did, of course, have an actual father, somewhere, alive or dead. Maybe he'd died in prison. Maybe he was, or had been mentally unstable, like his daughter. Maybe Lilian _was_ born out of wedlock. Whatever the reality, Moros's words were upsetting her.

He stared at Moros but said to Lilian, "Your guest is an ass. Don't encourage him."

"No," said Lilian, "Moros is right. It's good that he's here. You should know that my father was a king, and my mother was not his wife, yet she was Nisirtu - my genetic profile confirms this. I was born a decade after his wife and legitimate mate, the queen, had died. When I was still a child, my father went insane and attempted to lay waste to the other Houses. He was captured and imprisoned and is said to have died blabbering about silly things."

She stopped and said to Moros pointedly, "That is the abridged version."

Moros snorted disapprovingly. "Your version lacks drama, and you have omitted some tasty tidbits. You should have let me tell the tale."

"Time is short," retorted Lilian.

The eyes of the other man sparkled. "Touché. But Ben, do you understand what that means? That ring is not just the ring of Lilian's father. It is a ring worn over thousands of years by hundreds of kings. The men who wore it shaped much of the world."

Gazing at it lustily, he said, "I never thought to see it again, especially not on the hand of a...well, a member of the slave class."

Ben removed his hand from Lilian's and said, "You talk too much, Moros, and that thin veneer of civility does a poor job hiding the asshole beneath it."

"Careful," said the other man in a subdued but menacing tone. He met Ben's angry gaze. "I can have you written out of the world this very night."

"He is a citizen of the Seven, now," interjected Lilian. "You cannot harm him."

Moros waved the words away, his face full of contempt. "Accidents happen. Not everything that happens is scripted. Your birth, for example. No one scripts a bastard."

Ben shot up from his seat, his hands clenched into fists.

"No!" pleaded Lilian, clutching his sleeve. "No, Ben. Please sit down."

The other man said in a bored voice, "Calm yourself, Ben. I apologize. Sincerely. I assure you, I do grow on people-"

"Yeah, like a fungus," said Fiela, finally speaking.

Moros flinched. His face reddening, he mumbled, "Insubordinate bitch,"

Ben jerked his arm away from Lilian and lunged at the man. Lilian screamed as he landed atop the Nisirtu lord, tipping the sofa over and sending both men sprawling to the floor on the other side.

"No, Ben!" screamed Lilian. "Stop! You can't!"

But he it was too late. The two men grappled with one another, rolling on the floor and grunting as each sought enough room to throw a blow. Ben was surprised at how strong the other man was and knew that unless he could gain some tactical advantage, Moros would probably be able to pummel him senseless.

Before he could find that advantage, Moros slammed his forehead into Ben's face, aiming at his nose. Ben just avoided the attack by turning his head an inch to the right, but this meant that his right jaw caught the brunt of the blow. He tasted blood and knew that he'd probably lost a tooth.

He was about to knee his opponent when he heard the deafening crack of gunfire, its resonance magnified by the walls of the Great Hall. Acting on instinct, he released Moros and rolled to one side, grabbing his abdomen. To his surprise, his hands failed to find a wound.

He looked up. Fiela was five feet away, standing over a prone Moros, her pistol aimed at the man's head.

# 29

"Lord Moros," Fiela said evenly, "I'm sorry, but I cannot allow anyone to attack my husband and my king. Even a Lord of the Peth."

"Drop your gun," Moros seethed, rising to one knee. He did not appear to be wounded, and Ben realized that Fiela had only fired a warning shot.

"No," she replied.

Moros bared his teeth."I command you, _Peth!"_

To Ben's astonishment, the girl laughed. "Wow. So this is what it feels like."

Ben rose slowly to his feet. "What?"

"To have the freedom to say 'no' to a Lord of the Peth. It's like..." she waved her gun left and right. "It's like a drug."

"You can't refuse me," said Moros, confused. _"You are Peth!"_

Fiela kept the gun leveled at his face. "True, that. But I am also now the wife of a king. He holds a higher power than you, Lord Moros. You have no authority over me. Not anymore."

"A king?" yelled Moros, his face twisted with disgust. " _A king!_ You cannot give a slave the ring of a disgraced madman and call him a king!"

"He is no longer a slave. We have initiated him into the Nisirtu. It is a king's ring, and it gives my husband a king's authority."

Moros looked at Ben. "He is wed to a bastardess, and the ring belongs to a corpse in a pit. It gives _Ben_ no more authority than would a plastic ring from a box of cereal. It seals his marriage, and that is all. The Fifth Kingdom has no prince, only a king, and even he..."

Moros stopped speaking, apparently regretting his outburst.

"What of the king?" asked Lilian with obvious interest.

"Never mind," replied Moros. Looking suddenly wary, he glanced again at the gun in Fiela's hand. "You can put that away," he said, assuming a semblance of civility. "I'm done."

The girl said, "Are you certain? Because if I put this gun away, and you do anything stupid, I'll have to maul you with my hands. A bullet would be better."

"Yes, I know." Moros rose cautiously to his feet. He looked at Lilian, then Ben, his expression suggesting that everything that had just happened was already forgotten.

"I apologize to you both. My words earlier were indelicate. I did not come here looking for a fight. The situation is simply..." He searched for the right word. _"Unusual._ I am a warrior, not a diplomat. I hope you can forgive me."

Ben sensed movement to his right and turned quickly, concerned that Moros may have brought henchmen. But it was only Ridley, shuffling forward with a silver tea tray in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I couldn't find a fetch anywhere. Nor the sugar. I hope-"

He looked at the overturned sofa, then Moros and Ben, and finally at Fiela, who was by that point standing with her arms behind her, lazily rocking back and forth on the heels of her feet.

He said, "I was wondering what that sound was. Did the sofa leg finally break?" He looked at Moros and gave his head a slight shake. "I'm sorry, Lord. I meant to get that fixed. It has wobbled for months. Years, even."

"Not at all," said the lord, straightening his tie. His winning smile back, he said, "I'm sorry, Scriptus. I won't have time for tea today. Business, you know."

"Of course. Your pilot, though, I'm not sure where-?"

"I told him to stand by on the helipad."

Ben looked at Lilian, who read the question in his eyes. She nodded. _Yes, there's a helipad._

Smoothing back his hair, Moros bowed to everyone present. "Ben, Lilian, Fiela, Scriptus. Thank you for your hospitality. I'm sure we'll meet again under better conditions. _Soon."_

# 30

Lilian held a bag of ice against Ben's cheek. "He broke your stitches. That's why there's so much blood."

Fiela was on the other side of Ben, kneeling on the cushion, her feet tucked under her. She ran her fingers through his hair. "He defended me, Sister. Me! Ha! Never would I have imagined that my honor would be defended by...".

"A king," said Lilian.

Fiela liked that answer. "A king! Yes. My husband." She seemed giddy. "Oh Ben, that was very brave!"

Lilian, dabbing away a bit of blood on the man's lip said, "Yes. Not wise, perhaps, but brave."

"Sorry," Ben said, but the word sounded like "shorry" because he'd cut his tongue when Moros had head-butted him.

"Don't be sorry," said Lilian. "He came here to test us. He was intentionally belligerent. He wanted to know whether my marriage to you was political expedience or whether there was something _more_ to it. If you'd be indifferent to his verbal assaults against Fiela and me, he'd have left Steepleguard with a very different impression than the one he has now."

"Is that good or bad?" asked Ben. 'Is' sounded like 'ish.'

Lilian considered the question. "I'm not sure. If you'd been indifferent, he may have tried to bargain with me, which could have been to my advantage. Or he might have issued me an ultimatum, which would have been to my disadvantage. Not knowing his thoughts or intentions, I don't know what the outcome would have been if you'd not intervened."

"Sister," said Fiela, "what are you saying? He did the right thing! How can you think otherwise? He defended our honor!"

"Oh, certainly," said Lilian lowering the bag of ice. "I do not mean to be ungrateful. I was thinking only of the political implications, not the correctness of his behavior."

"Here we go again," sighed Ben. "Political implications? Who is Moros, really? A lobbyist for Big Pharma?"

"He is a megalomaniac," replied Lilian.

"Like I said."

Not getting the joke, Fiela said, "He wants to rule the world, Mutu."

Holding a hand against his bloody face, Ben said, "A lot of people do. But why did you pull a gun on him? It was just a fight. He didn't pull a gun on me, or a knife, or anything like that. If you'd shot him it would have been murder. You understand that, right?"

The girl _didn't_ seem to understand. "I had to defend you, Mutu. Who knows what he might have done? I couldn't wait for him to snap your neck. He's a very good fighter."

"Guns aren't always the answer. After the other night, I'd think you'd have learned that."

Fiela moaned as if Ben had missed the punchline of a joke. "Oh, Mutu! I only shot into the air. I wouldn't have shot _him_. That was all just for show so that he wouldn't be, you know, humiliated. If I'd gone hand-to-hand with him, I certainly would have won, and he would have been furious."

Lilian said, "She's right, Ben. Giving Lord Moros a chance to withdraw with dignity was the best move. Though," she turned to Fiela, "taunting him afterward was _not_ appropriate."

"I know," said the girl. "Sorry."

Ridley said, "I'll find one of my medical fetches. There's a lot of blood. Ben should be attended to."

Watching him go, Ben said, "Lilian, I have some questions."

Lilian nodded. "Of course. You wait here for the nurse. We'll talk after she's stitched you up."

* * *

Lillian walked with Fiela to an adjacent room and whispered, "You made a mistake, Sister."

Fiela was dumbfounded. "In protecting our husband?"

"Moros would not have harmed Ben. It was all a test. But in disobeying Moros, you have confirmed to him that you no longer view his command as legitimate. He now knows, with certainty, that there was a line between him and us. Up till now, he was only guessing that I intended to sever ties to the Seven. Now, he knows it, and he knows you have taken my side."

Fiela's brain processed the woman's words, and she slumped. "I see." Her voice weary, she said, "I'm sorry, Sister. I did not think of that. I thought only of protecting our husband."

Lilian reached out and lifted the girl's chin. "I am not chastising you. Moros would have discerned the truth soon, anyway. But let this be a lesson that you should be careful to look for the traps set by our enemies. Think before you act, Fiela. _Always._ Yes?"

The girl nodded. "As you say."

* * *

As his helicopter rose into the air, Moros gazed out his window and admired Steepleguard's size and magnificence. From the air, it resembled nothing so much as a medieval castle. He thought this was not coincidental. He had rights to several castles in Europe, but none were as grand and the one below him.

He would be very happy to add this one to his collection.

Eventually.

Aside from the bruising he'd suffered at the hands of the slave, Moros was satisfied with his trip. He now knew that the Ardoon was caught in Lilian's web. Ridley had lured him in with a script and now Lilian was holding him in place with money, or perhaps sex, or perhaps both. The slave, he knew, was fated to pay a steep price for chasing shiny objects. Lilian would place a bullet in his head soon after she placed a crown upon it. That same crown would be on her own head before the slave's body hit the floor.

Never mind that it was a crown made of tin. The Peth-Allati of the Fifth Kingdom would never accept a whore and a slave as monarchs. Which raised the question: _Why did she covet it so?_

There could be no doubt that she did. Thanks to the impetuous Fiela, Moros now knew that Lilian and her secret followers, whoever they were, had already mentally severed their bond to the Seven. He'd share that all-important information with the Families so that the traitors could be rounded up and dealt with.

Eventually.

First, he needed to better understand the web in which the slave was trapped.

He would make it his own.

# 31

His stitches repaired, Ben again sat in the Great Hall with Lilian, Fiela, and Ridley.

He said, "You've got a very complicated club, Lilian. Your backstory is a little over-the-top, and you've got this weird 'husband' and 'wife' thing going on, and you're prone to violence. You're also, from what I've seen, wealthy, and well-organized, and you've got a lot of internal friction. You also act as if this society isn't just part of your life–it _is_ your life."

Lilian listened patiently. "That's a fair assessment. What's your point?"

"It's all very...odd. It's almost like a cult. The fact that you want the Tiwanaku tablets deciphered – the fact that you even have them – reinforces that. Your legend says that alien gods created them. That's exactly the kind of thing a cult would be interested in. Some kind of 'hidden teaching.'"

"You're free to think of us as a cult if that better fits your world view," the woman said breezily. "Just remember that you are now a fellow cultist." She smiled.

He smiled back. "A lot of cults attract members by claiming to have secret knowledge about the end of the world."

"I'm aware of that."

He gave her what he hoped was a 'knowing' look. "Some cults even try to _make_ it happen. The end of the world, that is."

She laughed. "Is that what you think we're up to?"

"I don't know what you're up to. Put yourself in my shoes. What would you think?"

Lilian took a moment before answering, "I think I'd feel unsafe. Do you feel unsafe, Ben? Do you think you are in danger?"

"I think _someone_ is. If not me, then you, or Fiela, Ridley, or Moros, or maybe people I haven't even met yet. You've got guns and money and secrets. You're got turf wars. That's a volatile combination."

Standing and putting her hands behind her back, Lilian said, "If my 'cult' wanted you dead, don't you think you'd be dead by now? Fiela could have killed you in your sleep at your apartment. Or, far simpler, I could have left you there to contract Cage's disease."

"Maybe you'll change your mind."

"Oh, I see. We need you to study the tablets, but when you're done, you'll get a bullet in the back. Is that it?"

"I've considered that scenario, yeah."

"I'm not sure what assurance I could give you that you'd accept. If I'm evil, I'm obviously going to lie to you. But I will try, anyway."

She nodded in Fiela's direction. "Your serretu is Peth-Allati. A fighter, for lack of a better term. You saw her point a gun at Moros's head. Moros is a very high-ranking member of our society. Pointing a gun at him is not something to be taken lightly."

"Okay."

"It was you who said we take our society very seriously."

"Right..."

"Then perhaps you will take some comfort in my telling you that Fiela is your protector. That is why Moros was stunned by Fiela's reaction when she pulled a gun on him. She couldn't have done that a week ago. Now that we know he is against us, her loyalty to him is severed. His behavior made things easy for Fiela."

Fiela said, "I am loyal only to you and Sister now."

"Not Ridley?" asked Ben. "Your uncle?"

Fiela gave Ridley an embarrassed look. "I did not mean that. I'm loyal to my uncle. But he is neither king nor queen. It is a different kind of loyalty."

Lilian said, "What she means is that she isn't required to obey Ridley. She must obey you and me, who are her rightful leaders."

"I'm not a rightful leader," said Ben, sinking into the cushions.

"You are, Mutu, at least when among us, and rather you accept it or not. That means that Fiela _must_ protect you and _must_ obey you."

Fiela scowled at the woman. "I want to. Why say 'must?' You make it sound like I don't want to."

"I'm sorry, Fiela. But are not both words correct?"

Ben said, "I don't want her to _obey_ me."

He was okay with the protection part.

"You don't have a say in that matter. She is Peth-Allati."

"So?"

Lilian glanced at Ridley, who nodded once.

She said, "I know you don't believe most of what I tell you about the Nisirtu, and this won't be any different."

"Try me."

"Very well. The Peth, to include Fiela here, have a different genetic makeup from other Nisirtu. For thousands of years, they have been bred-"

_"_ Bred?" replied Ben, looking at Fiela, who seemed unbothered.

Lilian started again. "We have practiced a voluntary form of eugenics for thousands of years. In the Peth line, marriages are only approved between men and women with certain physical and behavioral characteristics. Physically, they have to be perfect specimens – strong, fast, and with superior senses. Fiela comes from a line of night fighters. She has perfect night vision. You've noticed that she always wears sunglasses when outside?"

"Yeah..."

"That's because daylight blinds her. As for behavior, the attributes sought for Peth pairings were ferocity and obedience. Peth who did not demonstrate acceptable levels of either of these traits were not allowed to reproduce, while those who did were allowed many offspring."

Ridley interrupted, saying, "That is why Peth cannot disobey those whom they believe are their rightful superiors. It is quite impossible."

Ben didn't understand. "What do you mean by 'impossible?'"

Lilian said, "It's hard to put this into words."

"Try." He looked at Fiela since he assumed she was best suited to address the matter, but she gazed back at him utter indifference.

Ridley said, "We all have our mental and psychological limitations, nephew. For example, you are physically capable of, may the heavens forbid it, torturing an animal. Say, a puppy. But could you?"

The other man blanched. "God no. That's unthinkable."

"Just so. That is how the Peth view disobedience. It is abhorrent. _Unthinkable_ , to use your term. The mere thought of it is revolting. Going back to my analogy, even if someone put a gun to your head and ordered you to do it, torturing an animal would be almost impossible, and even if you could do it, you would suffer trauma for the rest of your life." He held up a finger. _"That_ is how Peth perceive disobedience."

Ben was uneasy discussing this with Fiela just feet away, listening. Seeking again to involve her, he turned toward the girl and said, "Sorry, we shouldn't be discussing this as if you weren't here."

Fiela shrugged. "Why? It's true. Were you uncomfortable when uncle said you couldn't hurt a puppy?"

"Well, no, but-"

"I'm not ashamed of my instincts, either, Mutu. It is _wrong_ to disobey. It makes me sick to think about it, and I know I am right. Just because non-Peth think differently than us doesn't mean we are wrong. Think how much better the world would be if people just obeyed their superiors."

Ben didn't think that sounded like a better world, but remained silent.

She continued, "Besides I have only three people to obey. You, Sister, and Uncle. Do not most people have many more?"

"A valid point," said Lilian.

Ben said, "So, you're saying that you _want_ to be obedient. It's not something you're forced to do, right?"

Fiela shook her head. Her expression told Ben that he still didn't get it. "I do not _like_ to obey, Mutu. What I _like_ is inconsequential. I dislike _not_ obeying. I _despise_ disobedience. It is the worst evil in the world, truly. I like to obey those whom I love. _Like you."_

Ben looked at the girl for a long moment before shrugging. He didn't buy the breeding legend, of course, but he was aware that there were people who opted for a 'submissive' lifestyle.

Without thinking, he said, "Hey, if you elect to be a slave-"

"Ben!" exclaimed Lilian. "What a terrible thing to call Fiela!"

"What did I say?"

Fiela, her face white, took a step back. She bore the expression of someone who was just told a parent had died. "A slave? What have I done that you would speak of me so cruelly?"

Seeing the tears well up in her eyes, Ben realized he'd made a terrible mistake. He stood and took a step toward her, "Look, Fiela, I didn't mean-"

It was too late. A sob escaped the girl's mouth as the tears began to flow. She covered her face with her hands as she began to cry, her body trembling. The sound chilled Ben to the bone. He'd done this. His smart mouth.

"Fool," seethed Lilian to Ben, her face full of contempt.

She rose and went to Fiela, taking the sobbing girl by the shoulders. She kissed her on the head and whispered something into her ear. The girl shook her head and cried more loudly. Lilian to put her arm around the miserable creature's waist and led her out of the room.

Ben looked at Ridley. The old man looked away.

Ben sighed. It was time to go.

# 32

Ben scanned the grounds beyond the lush, massive courtyard south of Steepleguard and spotted, about half a mile away, the wood-shingled roof of a building, maybe a guest house, that was hidden by a tall hedgerow. To the right of it was a taller, metallic structure which resembled a warehouse. Ben guessed that the larger building might be used to store gardening supplies and equipment, which would mean the smaller building could be the one in which Haskell worked as the manager of the groundskeepers. There was a gap in the hedgerow and, after furtively looking around for anyone who might be watching, he moved toward it.

When he emerged on the other side, Ben saw that the roof he'd spotted belonged to a quaint stone cottage that was blanketed by ivy and rested in the shadows of several nearby trees. The door of the cottage had been painted a bright red, as had the shutters on the windows to either side. The small yard in front of the cottage hosted hundreds of colorful flowers which perfumed the air.

Ben followed a winding cobblestone walk to the front door and knocked twice. Haskell opened the door immediately, peeking around the edge from inside.

"Come in, Ben," he said, closing the door quickly after the other man was inside. "Did anyone see you?"

"I don't think so."

Haskell, dressed in the same black suit and sneakers he had worn when Ben first saw him, peered through the curtains of one of the windows to survey the area outside the cottage. After a few seconds, he said, "Okay, I think we're good."

He motioned for Ben to take a seat at a rustic table in the middle of the room. Nearby was a small desk cluttered with papers, behind which were several corkboards plastered with schedules, calendars, weather forecasts, and invoices. There was a small refrigerator, a coffee maker, an unmade twin bed, and a simple pine wardrobe. Ben also spied a tiny bathroom, the door to which was partially open.

Ben said, "I'm in over my head. I need to leave."

"What happened?"

"Didn't you hear the gunshot?"

Haskell dipped his head. "They shot at you?"

"No, not me. It was Fiela firing at some guy name 'Moros.' You did see the helicopter, right?"

"Sure. This Moros character was on it?"

"Right. I got into a fight with him, and Fiela broke it up by firing a shot into the air. After that, she aimed her gun at Moros. He backed down, but he seems like the type who'd hold a grudge."

Haskell relaxed. "So...we're cool, right?"

"No, we're not cool, Larry. This isn't charades anymore. Bullets are flying. These Nisirtu people aren't messing around. They're trying to kill each other. Moros might send someone to kill me, now. He strikes me as the kind of guy who holds grudges."

"Did he attack you?"

Ben rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, no. Not exactly."

"Not exactly?"

Ben sighed. "Okay, I attacked him. But he provoked me."

The agent laughed. "You attacked him? Why in God's name did you do that?"

"I've been asking myself that same question. I don't know. Moros pushed my buttons. He was saying things that were...'. Ben thought about what had happened and shook his head. "Okay, I was stupid. He was just really pissing me off. He called Lilian a whore and Fiela a bitch."

Ben felt a pang of guilt. Only minutes ago he'd flippantly called Fiela a slave. It was his accusation, not Moros's, that had caused Fiela so much pain. It was his words that had made her flee the room in tears.

Even Ridley refused to look at him.

Haskell chuckled. "Maybe he's right."

Ben, desperate to transfer his self-loathing to someone else, pointed a finger at the other man. "Don't be an asshole, Larry. I know they're wrapped up in this Nisirtu stuff, but I don't think either of them are capable of doing anything truly evil. They're just misguided."

Haskell said, "I think you're getting a bit too attached to the ladies Ben. What did they do? Lure you into a threesome or something? You tapping those sugar pots?"

Ben scowled. "You really are an asshole."

"I say what I think, man."

"Maybe you shouldn't." Ben took a second to center himself before saying, "They're not bad people. Any of them. I think that, in a weird way, they're trying to protect me."

_"Maybe,"_ replied Haskell, "but only for their own benefit. I don't know why, and neither do you. But they're not your friends, Ben. You're not here by accident."

"I didn't say they were my _friends_ -"

Haskell held up a hand. "Wait. Before you start babbling about how polite they are and what good care they're taking of you, let me give you a few things to ponder. For example, how did you end up here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it, man. You were offered a job by Goldie yesterday morning, and you hesitated, saying you'd think it over. She pushed you, but you said you'd get back to her, right? But that _very night_ you got mixed up in the killings of two policemen because Red, her 'sister,' just _happened_ to be trailing you and the police just _happened_ to be trailing her, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Okay. Then, out of thin air, Goldie shows up in her fancy car and convinces you to leave the scene, making you complicit in the crime, which means that suddenly you need her help."

Ben didn't say anything, but Haskell had his attention.

"Then," the agent continued, "by some miracle, your apartment building is the first in all of Denver to be infected by Cage's disease. What are the odds, huh? Man, you must have the crummiest luck in the world!"

He held a palm up and shook his head. "No, no – I take that back! Because, _lucky for you_ , just in the nick of time, Goldie and Red arrive to save you from quarantine by whisking you off to this wonderful resort in the mountains, which is where Goldie wanted you all along. Funny how all that worked out, huh?"

Ben set his jaw, but he knew that the doubt in his eyes betrayed him. Haskell's jabs were hitting home. Still, he didn't respond, so the other man kept talking.

"Not enough? Okay. Isn't it curious that, you being a fugitive and all, you're stuck here until 'the lawyers' decide what to do. Lawyers you've never met. You're relying on Goldie to communicate with them - which she isn't, by the way, _because they_ _don't exist_."

He splayed his hands. "But what else can you do? You can't hire your own lawyer because there's no way for you to get in touch with one. There's no cellular service here and, your bad luck again rearing its ugly head, the only landline to this place is dead for the first time in like a century. You're stuck here and have no way of communicating with the outside world. You're completely dependent upon three people you didn't' even _know_ yesterday morning. Am I right?"

Ben moved his chin left and right to loosen his tongue. His mouth had gone dry. "I can leave anytime I want," he said, embarrassed at how pathetic his words sounded even to his own ears. "There's nothing stopping me."

"Not yet, no, because you haven't _asked_ to leave. Trust me, as soon as you do..." Haskell snapped his fingers, "Boom! Everything with wheels on it will be missing or have engine trouble. Even if you stole a car, what would you do, Ben? Where would you go? Do you realize how deep in the mountains you are? This is the boondocks, buddy. It's wilderness for miles in every direction. The roads around here aren't on any map. Even a GPS would be useless because it would just show your location as a red dot in the middle of a blank screen. I'm guessing you didn't bother to memorize all the twists and turns it took to get you to get here, did you?"

Ben sagged and let out a breath. "No," he said in a barely audible voice. "I was...asleep."

This seemed to amuse Haskell. "What?"

"Lilian's doctor gave me some painkillers, and..." His voice trailed off as the reality set in.

Haskell sighed. "Yeah. You were drugged. It wasn't painkillers they gave you. It was sleeping pills. Probably in a mega dose."

"Shit," said Ben, amazed at his own naiveté.

"Don't take it too hard, buddy. They're a clever bunch." He checked his wristwatch. "You're going to be missed if you stay much longer. One more thing..."

He took a chair opposite Ben's and leaned in close. "I hate to twist the dagger, but if they promised you any money for your services, forget about it. You'll never see a dime. All that," the man said, motioning toward Steepleguard, "is a facade. The Nisirtu don't own any of it. It's leased from some South American front company. Of course, the Niz will promise you whatever you ask for, but you've got no way of verifying anything, do you? No cellular service, no phone, no internet. No way to check your bank account..."

He reached forward and put his hands on Ben's shoulders. "I know I've thrown a lot at you and that your life has been turned upside. But stick with it. Help me help you. I'm not asking you to do anything except to keep your eyes open and play along with the Niz for a little while longer. I think you're safe, for now. The Niz brought you here to study those old tablets, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do that. Do what they brought you here to do. Maybe there's more to those rocks than you think. Make it look like you're doing your job, and act like you're making progress, even if you're not. But whatever you do, don't 'solve' their problem, whatever that problem is. If you give them a solution, you've lost your value, and then maybe you really _will_ be in danger."

He leaned forward. "Got it?"

"Yeah," said Ben. "Got it."

Haskell patted the man on the shoulder and stood. "Okay, get out of here. Be careful on your way back. If you run across a Niz, tell them you went for a walk and got lost."

Ben stood and moved toward the door. "You can get me out of here when the time comes, though, right?"

"You bet. I've got a truck, and I come and go all the time. By the time you're missed, you'll be back in civilization."

"Alright," Ben said, as Haskell went to the window and scanned the area.

"Clear," the agent said.

Ben left, closing the door behind him. Haskell watched as Ben disappeared behind the tall hedge the formed a barrier between Steepleguard and the cottage.

Deadman walking, he thought.

# 33

After he left Haskell's cottage, Ben went directly to the tablet vault.

In a sense, he was relieved by what Haskell had revealed to him. His guilt at having made Fiela cry dissipated once he'd convinced himself that the entire scene was a play meant to manipulate him; to put him further under the Nisirtu's spell. True, he couldn't do what Fiela had done. He couldn't make himself cry. But he'd heard of actors and actresses that could. It was part of their craft.

Clearly, it was part of the Nisirtu's craft, too.

_Chump!_

He was not a spy and had no clue what game was being played. He was out of his element. For all he knew, he'd wake up tomorrow and find Steepleguard abandoned, his hosts having vanished into the thin air they'd materialized from.

Or maybe he'd find Moros playing a game of Twister with Lilian and Fiela in the Great Hall. Anything seemed possible at this point.

The one thing - the only thing - that he knew for certain was that the stone tablets were authentic. They contained a language system - or something like one - unseen by anyone else in the world. He would be famous if he managed to translate the tablets; at least within that small circle of researchers who cared about such things. He'd need to liberate those tablets when Haskell liberated him.

Ben was holding one of the tablets in his hands, mesmerized by the illusion of the movement of the colored lines, when Ridley appeared in the doorway.

"Good evening, nephew."

"Ridley," said the researcher, startled. Collecting his wits, he said, "How is Fiela?"

"Better."

"I'm sorry about what I said. I didn't mean to insult her. I was trying to do just the opposite. Maybe if-"

Ridley shook his head. "All is forgiven, Ben. It was a simple misunderstanding. The word 'slave' means something different to you than it does to Fiela. We've talked, and she understands that you are not an Agati speaker and are new to the Nisirtu. She doesn't want to think badly of you and was quick to accept my explanation of why you said what you said."

Feeling oddly relieved, despite suspecting the tears were fake, Ben said, "Thank you."

"No, no. Such misunderstandings are to be expected when you bring people from different cultures together. I'm sure we've offended you in many ways, also."

Ben wanted to say, "Yeah, by kidnapping me, lying to me, and almost getting me killed."

Instead, he said, "If you're here to ask if there's been a breakthrough, the answer is 'no.'"

"After only eight hours? I'm not surprised. You said it would take at least a month."

Ben was confused. "Eight hours?" He checked his watch. "No way. I..." But checking his watch, he saw that Ridley was right. It was nearly 8 pm.

Impossible, he thought. He didn't even remember going for a piss since he'd left Haskell's cottage. _What the hell..?_

"It's easy to lose track of time when studying the tablets," said Ridley, as if reading the researcher's thoughts. "It's the colors and shapes and the...well, the vibrations, if you will. I don't know of a better word. Somehow they hypnotize you, do they not?"

Ben looked down at the tablet he was holding. "I guess." Thinking of Haskell's advice, he said,

"Don't push yourself too hard. Your subconscious is already working on the tablets. Let it do the hard work. You'll find it will be far more effective than your conscious mind."

"I tried that in college. It didn't work well."

Ridley smiled. "Nevertheless. You look like you could use a rest. Why not come back to the tablets later?"

Ben set the tablet down and rubbed his eyes. "Are you telling me to go to bed?"

"No," the old man said. "Lilian is. I'm but the humble messenger."

# 34

Ben heeded Lilian's request. After a trip to one of the downstairs restrooms, he ambled up the stairs toward his suite. He decided he'd spend some time in the shower contemplating his next move before finding Fiela and making sure she was okay.

He realized he was a sap for needing to do that. He knew she was playing him. But he couldn't sleep without her at least pretending to forgive him for his pretended slander.

_I'll find her, and we'll both play our parts, and then we can move on-_

His scheming came to an abrupt end the moment he opened the door to his suite. Inside, Lilian and Fiela stood beside one another at the foot of the bed, nude except for thin, foot-long silk cloths that dangled on gold chains beneath their navels and shimmering broad collars that were as wide as their shoulders and extended from their necks to the swell of their breasts.

Lilian's collar consisted of brilliant, glowing gold rods that radiated from her neck like rays of the sun, with pearls, diamonds, and other precious stones dotting the bars like orbiting planets. The collar around Fiela's neck was slightly smaller, and silver, but far more intricate, like a luminous spider web. Rubies flowed from her neck to her chest like streams of blood.

Both women had applied thick black eyeliner and around that an additional layer some kind of black makeup. It was a look he'd seen many times before in movies set in ancient Egypt. _Cleopatras_ , he thought, while doubting that the fabled beauty of even that ancient queen could match the beauty of the two women in front of him.

The room was illuminated by dozens of candles, and the women stood barefoot on a mat of woven palm leaves upon which glitter had been liberally sprinkled. No, not glitter. Gold dust. An odd but pleasant scent, earthy and sweet, permeated the air.

"Mutu," said Lilian, lifting Fiela's right breast with her nearest hand, "behold your wife and serretu, Fiela, _Nocte Sicarius_ , Peth of the Fifth Kingdom, Protector of the Nisirtu, and Vanquisher of the Maqtu."

Ben opened his mouth to say something super witty, but Fiela spoke first.

"Mutu," she said, smiling and reaching out to cup and lift Lilian's left breast, "behold your asatu, Lilitu of Sargon, _Regis Filia_ , Rightful Annasa of the Fifth Kingdom, Dominus of the Ardoon, Savior of the Nisirtu, and Vanquisher of the Maqtu." She was playfully flicking Lilian's nipple with her thumb as she recited the titles, which was apparently unscripted given Lilian's sideways glance at her.

Ben saw the area below Lilian's navel was decorated by series of tiny scarlet tattoos. _Cuneiform-Nouveau_ , he thought, though he couldn't be sure in the dim light.

He took a step forward. "No one gave me a script. Am I supposed to say or do something here?"

"Oh yes, Mutu, you're supposed to do something," replied Fiela. "Two things, actually."

Lilian took a step forward so that Fiela could move behind her and unclasp the golden broad collar. "This was the collar of Queen Nebu," the princess said, lifting her hair in the back. "It has not been worn for three thousand years. Fiela's collar once belonged to Queen Veradil. The Ardoon experts claim other pedigrees for both collars, but they are wrong, as usual."

Ben said, "They're both impressive but nothing compared to either of you."

The women merely smiled, because, he knew, they were aware of their beauty. In fact, they were both so perfect that he was unsure to whom he should compare them. Movie stars? Models?

No, that would be like comparing the diamonds around Lilian's neck to shards of glass. He'd never seen any woman in any medium as gorgeous as either Lilian or Fiela at that moment, though the two had distinct body types. Lilian was perhaps two inches taller than Fiela, and curvier. Fiela sported a swimmer's build, though her shoulders were not as broad or accentuated as an Olympian's. The muscles in her arms, legs, and stomach were visible but only barely so. The dim light concealed the faded scars of battle on her flesh.

Fiela took Lilian's collar to a wooden box that had been placed on a dresser. After carefully placing the artifact inside its case and closing the lid, she moved to a giant four-poster bed and turned down the covers. Lilian walked toward it, and Fiela returned with a golden cup in her hand, which she handed to Ben.

From the bed, Lilian said, "The cup is the cup of my father, King Sargon. It and the ring are all I have of his. It is a tradition that we should share wine from the same cup when a union between Nisirtu is established."

Ben studied the vessel in the candlelight. Unlike the ring, it seemed a fairly simple affair, with a few cuneiform markings around the rim but no other inscriptions. He shrugged, took a sip of the wine, and handed it back to Fiela. The girl accepted it and drank deeply from it before taking the cup to Lilian, who swirled her finger in the wine before drinking it and setting the cup on a nightstand.

She looked at Ben lustily. "Done. Come here, Mutu."

Ben decided that he'd play along. It's what Haskell would want him to do.

# 35

Ben lay on his side and watched as Lilian, her eyes closed, mumbled something in Agati. A prayer? Was she religious, he wondered? Superstitious? He knew nothing of the spiritual practices of the Nisirtu, and, had assumed they had none, but at that moment he remembered Fiela telling him she had glimpsed 'the underworld.'

Fiela approached the bed, having somehow removed her broad collar. The black makeup around her violet eyes gave her an otherworldly appearance, an effect magnified by the fact that her violet eyes literally glowed in the dark, like a cat's.

"Transaction complete?" she asked.

"Um, yeah," said the man.

The Peth climbed onto the bed and laid one cheek against Lilian's stomach. Her face was just inches from the odd, scarlet tattoos, and she caressed the flesh in front of her reverently. Only then did Ben see that in addition to the tattoos beneath Lilian's navel there were tiny red cuneiform symbols inked in circles on each breast. He had not seen them before because of the room's dim lighting and the urgency of his lust. The sleeping woman continued to utter words he did not understand.

"Lilian, you okay?" he asked.

"She cannot answer," said Fiela. "She is wandering the ether."

"She's what?"

The girl kissed the woman's stomach. "She's _high_ , Mutu. It is her wedding night, and she must visit the invisible planes of the gods. She placed the requisite herbs in her wine to achieve that purpose. Don't worry. They are mild and will only last an hour or so."

She lifted her eyes to his. "How many gods do you have? Shall I make them mine?"

The man, surprised at this line of questioning, said, "I've only got the one, I guess. I'm what you might call a 'bad Christian.' You know, I go through the motions, but I've got more questions than answers and don't believe half of what I say I believe."

"That is the same for me," said Fiela. "I think that is why my gods ignore me and the underworld rejects me. They're beginning to piss me off. I need a new god. Would you like me to be a bad Christian? __ It does not sound very difficult."

"Fiela, you should be whatever you want to be. I'm in no position to dictate your faith to you, having so little myself. I'm pretty sure what I'm doing tonight is _verboten_. Anyway," he said, nodding at Lilian, "what is the point of this ritual?"

Fiela said, "To seek an unborn soul."

A moment later, Ben's heart stopped. "Wait," he said, "she's not on the pill?"

"Of course not," answered Fiela, as if the question surprised her. "We do not use them. They do not work for us. I don't know why. Anyway, you must trust your wife. She is wise and will find the strongest and bravest soul and will entice it to return with her. See the rewards she promises?" asked the Peth, running a finger along the scarlet tattoos. "A warm and loving womb and milk that is like honey. The milk of royal blood. The ether is extremely cold. Many souls will plead to return with her. Plus, she's very fertile, and the timing is excellent."

Ben moaned, watching as Lilian's lips move purposefully yet silently. Beneath their lids, her eyes darted rapidly back and forth. _Searching_ , just as Fiela said.

_What have you done now, Ben?_

Fiela rolled onto her stomach, saying over her shoulder, "You have bonded with my sister, husband. Now you must bond with me."

Ben saw that there were cuneiform tattoos on both sides of Fiela's perfectly toned buttocks, similar to the ones below Lilian's naval.

Immediately intuiting their purpose, he said, "You know, under the circumstances, maybe I shouldn't."

"The circumstance is that it is our wedding night, and I am your serretu, and our marriage is not yet consummated." She propped herself up on her elbows and spread her legs.

Ben didn't move.

The girl rolled onto her side. "Do I not please you?" Wondering at his hesitation, she said, "Lilian assisted in my preparation."

"Um..."

"Am I doing something wrong?" she asked, trying to read is expression. "Sister gave me instructions but I cannot recall them all. Is there's something else I'm supposed to do? Just tell, Mutu, and I will do it."

"You're a virgin?" Ben asked, amazed.

"Of course. I was never granted permission to couple with anyone." She inched closer. "I think I will moan _a lot_. I am tough on the outside but like any woman on the inside."

The man slowly shook his head. "What?"

Fiela frowned. "Does that not excite you? Sister said it would." She lowered her eyes to the pillow in front of her. "Wait....was I supposed to tell you that?"

She put a hand over her face. "No. I do not think so." She lifted her head and again looked at him. "Sorry."

Ben's eyes move between Lilian, still mumbling, and Fiela, looking at him expectantly, and pondered the ethical implications of the situation. He didn't know whether Fiela was offering to do something she wanted to do, or whether she was doing something she felt compelled to do. Perhaps something Lilian had instructed her to do.

He said, "Look, Fiela, it's not that I'm not attracted to you. I am. Anyone would be. But I don't think it's right for me to, you know...right now, anyway. Also, I think you need to be careful what advice you accept from Lilian about sex. Her views and yours might not be the same. You should be honest about what you want and feel."

Fiela studied him with her glowing violet eyes for a long time before blowing out a breath and rising from the bed. Her reaction was not what he expected. "You're lecturing me about sex on our wedding night?"

"No, I'm just saying-"

"Never mind. I can see that your _enthusiasm_ is dwindling. Very well."

She pulled a blanket over Lilian's body and kissed her gently on the shoulder before slipping beneath the sheets. Feeling oddly guilty again, Ben lay down on the other side of the self-proclaimed princess, who continued to mumble incoherently.

He said, "Sorry, Fiela," and reached over Lilian to stroke the Peth's cheek. "About what I said earlier."

"Don't be sorry for that. I understand you did not mean what I thought. Uncle explained it to me. But you _should_ be sorry for not embracing me tonight. The preparation I had to undergo was not pleasant."

"Can't we just say-?"

"No. Lilian will know the truth."

"How?"

Fiela rolled her eyes. "Oh, Mutu!"

# September 24

> The only saving grace of the present is that it's too damned stupid to question the past very closely.
> 
> * * *
> 
> H.P. Lovecraft, _Pickman's Model_

# 36

At the conclusion of breakfast that morning, Ridley took Ben by the elbow and said, "Lilian tells me you'd like to see one of our scripts."

Ben's was stunned. The old man was _offering_ to show him one of the secret scripts? "Of course, if it's permitted."

"Why not? Let's go to my study."

When the two arrived at their destination, Ridley led Ben to something resembling an altar at the back of the unkempt room. Its dimensions were those of a small bathroom vanity, and it appeared to be constructed from mahogany. There was a worn, blue velvet cushion on top.

The old man said, "Does this remind you of anything, Ben?"

"Of course."

"I purchased it from an old Masonic lodge that was forced to close when the town around it died. In fact, I bought everything in the lodge. I have all the items stored safely away. Perhaps someday someone will make use of them, yes?"

Ben couldn't imagine what the man meant, but to be agreeable, said, "Maybe."

Ridley touched a small black plate at the front of the modified altar, and Ben heard a whirring and click. The lid slowly opened on its own via internal hydraulic lifts, and Ridley reached inside.

"Here we go," said the scribe, pulling something out, though not without effort. Sounding winded, he said, "This is called a script cauldron."

Without obvious relief, Ridley handed him the object to Ben. It was black and shiny, about a foot in length and three inches in diameter. In shape and size, the cauldron resembled four cans of beans glued end to end, except that the surface was perfectly smooth, as if the object had been dipped in enamel after it was assembled. It was heavy. Ben guessed it weighed around twenty pounds. It was no wonder Ridley struggled to remove it.

Ben carefully examined the surface, running his fingers across every edge and corner. He discovered only a small hole, no more than two millimeters in diameter, in the center of the cylinder's surface. It was filled with glass. _A lens_ , he wondered? "What am I missing? How do you get inside this thing?"

Ridley said, "You can't. If you try to open it, the device will explode."

" _Explode?"_

"Yes. Beneath the enamel, there is a metal casing, and beneath that is a thick layer of plastic explosives. That's why it's heavy. The outer casing is designed to fragment into shrapnel. The blast radius is approximately fifty meters."

Ben withdrew his hand. "Let's not test that."

"I'd rather not. Also – and perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier – you must never move the cylinder more than twenty feet from its anchor point. That will destroy the scripts instantly and trigger an internal self-destruct mechanism."

"What's an anchor point?"

"The location logged for the cauldron's permanent placement. The coordinates, in other words. In this case, the anchor point is the center of the altar, atop the cushion. The coordinates of that point are electronically stored within the cauldron. It 'knows' where it is at by pinging numerous satellite and ground stations, in addition to ten transmitters hidden throughout Steepleguard. It also has an internal mechanism that can detect and measure movement."

"What if you _need_ to move it?"

"There are people for that, but the reprogramming takes a very long time. The cauldron's internal clock allows only a single command line to be altered, added, or deleted, per minute. The process, from start to finish, takes two days. That prevents the device from being quickly deactivated by anyone who might try to steal it."

"How long before a cauldron self-destructs if it's moved too far from its anchor point?"

"It's random. It could be a minute later, or it could be days later."

"I don't understand. Why is it random?"

"That deters anyone from using it as a weapon. There is dissent within the ranks of even the Nisirtu, Ben. While the randomness of the self-destruct timer doesn't _prevent_ a script cauldron from being used as a bomb, it makes the thing much less suitable for that purpose. Not knowing when it will explode, it poor tool for the prospective assassin."

Ben placed the object on the blue velvet cushion. The center was easy to identify since it was threadbare. Leaning over to inspect the object closer, Ben asked, "Do these ever malfunction?"

"Rarely. The odds of dying from a spontaneous detonation of a script cylinder are no greater than the odds of being struck by lightning."

Ben wasn't sure he liked those odds. People were struck by lightning all the time. He leaned back in his chair. "Are the scripts in Agati?"

Ridley nodded but looked unhappy. "The sad truth is that many Nisirtu are not fluent in Agati. They spend so much time embedded in Ardoon society that they rarely need to use it. They can converse in our native tongue at what you might call an '8th-grade level,' but the scripts are highly complex, and we cannot chance them being misunderstood. Consequently, the scripts are in both Agati and all major Ardoon languages."

"Really? How many scripts are in a cauldron?"

"I usually receive around thirty thousand. But I'm a scribe, which means I get what you might call the 'international' editions. Most Nisirtu have only regional or local responsibilities, and receive far fewer. Perhaps only a hundred or so."

Glancing at the object, Ben frowned. "Then they're not written on paper."

"Not anymore."

"What format are they in, then? Digital? Is there a hard drive in there that you hook up to a computer or maybe even a little computer which you can access with your phone?"

"You're right that they are digital and stored on something approximating a hard drive. The cauldrons are constantly receiving data that is transmitted from dozens of scribe stations around the world."

Ben thought about that, and about Haskell's allegation that his computer had been used to send and receive encrypted emails. He wondered if there was a connection. "I assume the scripts are encrypted."

"No. There's no need. We use quantum communication, which means encryption isn't necessary."

The other man pursed his lips and shook his head. "No, not. Sorry, Ridley. That's not going to fly. I know something about this from my crypto training in the military. Quantum communication is still in its infancy. There are no practical applications yet."

"Not in the Ardoon world, no, but the Nisirtu have been employing it successfully for several years."

Ben rolled his eyes and shrugged. Why argue with a madman? "Okay, sure." He checked his watch. "Well, if you need to read the script, I'll get out of your hair."

But as he rose, the old man said, "Not at all. I want you to be here when the scripts are generated, nephew. I believe that is the only way to truly convince you of the reality of the Nisirtu."

This caught Ben off guard. Returning slowly to his seat, he said, "Really?"

"Yes," replied Ridley, reaching into a baggy pocket on the front his robe. Withdrawing his hand, he extended it to Ben, palm up. The other man saw two tiny gray pills, the size and shape of baby aspirin.

_Ah, shit,_ thought Ben, knowing what was coming next.

Ridley said, "One for _you_ and one for _me_."

# 37

Nizrok was aghast. "The whore has orchestrated a wedding reception to celebrate her marriage to an Ardoon?"

"It is true," said Moros. "The marriage contract was distributed yesterday to all the Houses. She boasts of her pathetic marriage to a slave and formally invites others to witness her self-degradation at the keep of Scriptus Ridley. I was so outraged that I flew to Steepleguard yesterday to confront her, and she had the gall to present the slave as Nisirtu! Can you imagine? To me, a Lord of the Peth."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? I sent the man to the floor with one blow, cursed Lilian, and left. I can still smell the stench of the slave in my nostrils."

The bald Peth with the evil eyebrows stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of Moros's top floor suite. Denver bustled below, and the Rocky Mountains glimmered serenely in the distance. "You did the right thing. I agree it is outrageous," he said, "but as we discussed, the marriage is of no real consequence. Why should the reception bother you so?"

Moros was tapping his fingers on the table that separated him from the other Peth. "It bothers me because I do not understand it."

"She is the daughter of a madman and disenfranchised. Her behavior has always been scandalous and erratic."

"No," said the silver-eyed man, "it has always _appeared_ erratic. Yet she managed to summon the ghost of her father to bless a marriage that should have never taken place. A womb that should be collecting dust is this morning sticky with the residue of Ardoon seed, and someday that seed may become a child."

"Again," said Nizrok, "we have discussed this. The whore bears a slave child - what is that to us? The Seven Houses control the world. She has no power whatsoever."

"She has Ridley."

"Granted, but he may only write _Infraviters,_ scripts internal to his own House, and only out to, what, four degrees? The Seven have kept a tight leash on him, cognizant of his past associations. There is nothing that can be accomplished with so little latitude."

Lightly tapping the table with a fist, Moros grimaced. "Yes, but this reception smells too much like a coronation. Lilitu would not invite other Nisirtu if it did not serve her purposes. It is clear to me that she wants to show the Seven and any who would sympathize with her that she is now capable of legally renewing her father's bloodline and has every intention of doing so. I would not be surprised if Ridley placed a crown on her head and asked the attendees to bow down before her."

Nizrok studied the lord before saying, "She is a member of the Seven. You must not harm her, Moros. Do not damage your standing with the Houses or the citizenry. This is a precarious time."

"I know that," the other man said dismissively.

"Everyone at Ridley's abode is Seven, as are presumably those invited to the reception."

"Yes, yes. I know that, also."

"They do not war against us. An attack against any of them would be-"

"Yes, Nizrok, I know!" yelled Moros. Regaining control, he said, "Still, I shall petition my king and request that something be done. I despise this feeling of impotence."

"You, impotent?"

"I am but a tool. We both know that."

Nizrok opted not to make the remark that first came to mind. "What shall you petition for?"

"Action. Of any kind. Soon."

# 38

Ben stared at the pills in the old man's leathery palm. His chest tightening, he said, "Um...so, uh...Ridley..." He coughed in an effort to open his constricting throat. "Why do I need to take a pill to see the scripts?"

"Oh, it's mandatory, I'm afraid. You'll understand once the process starts. You see, these open certain neural pathways, and without them, you won't see or comprehend anything." Apparently sensing the other man's concern, the scribe added, "It's perfectly safe, I assure you. Do you think I would have spent so much energy in getting you to Steepleguard only to have you pass into the underworld because of a bad trip?"

As if to prove his point, Ridley popped one of the pills into his mouth and swallowed. He waited ten seconds and said, "See. I'm still here and still quite cognizant of my surroundings. I have taken one of these a day for more than a decade, since these new devices were issued, and have detected no side effects. Nor have other scribes, and there are many. Oh, and good news! They are fruit-flavored and chewable."

Ben waited for another a second more before taking the pill from Ridley's outstretched hand and popping it into his mouth. As he chewed, his worried expression evaporated. "What is this, strawberry?"

"It's hard to tell. I call it 'red' flavored. It is supposed to be some kind of berry, I'm sure."

"It's delicious," Ben said, and he meant it. It was, perhaps, the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"That's because the neural networks are being formed. When that process starts, there's a short-term sense of euphoria coupled with heightened sensory perception."

"Oh, wow," said Ben, looking about the room. _Euphoria_ was the right word. This put the opioids he'd received when recovering from his Afghanistan injuries to shame. The world around him was suddenly a wonderful and beautiful place. All his worries evaporated. The universe opened up before him...

The sensation disappeared. Crushed, he looked at Ridley, who said, "It's a short-term effect. You can understand why. The pills would be addictive if the effect lasted any longer."

The other man sighed. "God, yes. That was the happiest minute of my life."

"I keep about a hundred of these in a bottle in the top right drawer, over there," he said, motioning toward his desk. "Now, are you ready to see the scripts?"

"Sure," said Ben. "What do we do?"

"It will just be you, nephew. I have already seen the scripts today. This is for your benefit."

"Why did you take the pill, then?"

"So that you would trust me, and because I enjoy the occasional high. Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm ancient and have pains you can't even imagine, and I haven't operated a motor vehicle in three decades. I admit to popping a few script pills from time to time to take the edge off. Running the world isn't easy, you know." He put a finger to his lips. "Which reminds me, later I'll show you the marijuana garden."

_"The what?"_

"Later, nephew," Ridley replied. "Now," he said, moving behind the other man and grabbing his shoulders, "place yourself directly in front of the altar, your body in line with the script cauldron. Focus your vision on the small aperture in the center of the device. Some scribes kneel to get their eyes closer, but I've found it's not necessary. Let's try it this way first, yes?"

"Fine," Ben said, letting the more experienced man make the call.

"Now, lean forward, and still focusing on the aperture, slowly touch the cauldron."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

Ben did as directed.

Nothing happened.

"Very good," said Ridley, clasping his hands together. "Okay, we're done here."

Ben stood erect and turned to the scribe. "We're _done?"_

"Yes."

It took Ben a second to find his voice. "Where are the scripts?"

"In your head."

"In my head?"

"Yes. Gestating."

"Gestating? What does that mean?"

"They are being processed; assembled, if you like. It takes time, Ben."

The researcher looked at the cauldron, then back at the scribe, increasingly incensed by what had just happened. Or rather, what had _not_ happened. "Ridley, nothing happened. _Nothing._ There was no light from the aperture, no tingly sensation, no electricity in the air, no anything. I didn't see or feel _anything."_

"I wouldn't expect you to. I don't."

Ben waited for a punchline. None came. He said, "So...the scripts that run the world will just 'come to me' at some point, huh? They're up here," he said, tapping the side of his head, "like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and my subconscious will assemble them. _In time."_

"Just so. Sending scripts is more involved, of course. There's a significant amount of memorization required beforehand. The scripts are sent by touch, not sight."

"By _touch._ "

"Yes."

"I see," Ben said in a defeated voice. He sat on the altar that still hosted the script cauldron. His hands gripping the edge of the lid, he said in a measured tone, "Ridley, how would you know a mental script - one supposedly planted in your mind from the cauldron - from a fantasy created by your subconscious?"

Ridley shrugged. "The two can get conflated from time to time. Don't worry, Ben. With experience, you'll learn to distinguish the two. Until then, I'm more than happy to help you."

Ben lowered his chin. "You mean, I assume, that you'll help me separate reality from fantasy. You'll _interpret_ my _visions_ for me. Is that right?"

"Not the words I would use, but yes. That is, if you want my help."

Ben gave a slight nod. "Uh-huh. When do these visions manifest themselves, normally?"

"Oh, it can be anytime. Typically at night, when you're asleep. Sleep allows the assembly to occur faster. There are fewer distractions."

"So they're a lot like dreams."

"Very similar, yes, but far more detailed."

Ben crossed his arms, thought for another moment, and raised his head. Meeting the old man's jaundiced eyes, he said as cheerfully as he could, "Okay. This has been great. Thanks, Ridley. It's been a real honor being allowed to take part in this...."

He waved one arm behind him. "Um, _ceremony_ , I guess. As soon as the visions appear, I'll let you know."

# 39

A few hours later, Ben made his way cautiously to Haskell's cottage.

Haskell said, "Tell me what you've learned."

Ben put his elbows on the table between them and shrugged. "Not much. Ridley promised to show me the scripts that the Nisirtu supposedly use to run the world."

This made Haskell lean in. "And?"

"And, nothing. "The scripts are, according to him, digital - or virtual, or... _whatever._ He showed me a big black tube he called a 'script cauldron' and asked me to stare at it. I did. Nothing happened. He thought the entire exercise was a great success, of course."

"Bizarre," said the agent. "This place makes Disney World look like the United Nations."

"Yeah."

Haskell frowned "Well, I do have some news, but I'm afraid it's not good."

He leaned to one side and lifted a manila envelope from and adjacent chair. He handed it to Ben.

As the other man opened it, Haskell said, "They moved fast. I told my guys to freeze all your accounts, but it was too late. The Niz have drained your bank account and, to make matters worse, they've stolen your identity and run up some sizable debts in your name."

Ben stared at the papers in front of him, an odd sensation of vertigo sweeping over him. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years; not since he was lying helpless on the ground in Afghanistan, wounded and surrounded by angry villagers who were intent on beating him to death.

It was a feeling of pure despair. Despair...and fear. And anger.

In his hands were printouts of bank accounts, bills, loan papers, and receipts. Every penny in his meager checking account had been withdrawn the day he'd fled his apartment with Lilian and Fiela. That same day, loans had been taken out in his name in five different cities, totaling almost $115,000, and the balance on his credit cards had exploded from a few thousand dollars to ten times that amount.

Haskell sighed. "That's not all, I'm afraid. Your car is missing and, well..."

"What?"

The agent looked apologetic. "It's probably unrelated to all this, but your apartment building was burned to the ground last night. The police think it was arson and probably done by some locals because they knew a victim of Cage's disease had lived there."

"My stuff?"

"Gone, man. Sorry. There wasn't anything too valuable in your apartment, was there?"

"Books," replied Ben quietly. "My language books. Some of them..." He felt nauseous. "Some were old. _Very_ old. One of a kind."

"Valuable?"

Ben didn't respond. _Valuable?_ Of course they were valuable, but that wasn't the point. He'd purchased the books years ago when he'd had a steady income as a professor and no real expenses. Because of their rarity, there were no digital copies available, which meant all the knowledge contained within them was probably lost forever. In burning those books, the arsonists had permanently deleted an irreplaceable portion of human history. The burning of the books, accidental or not, infuriated him more than the personal ruin caused by the theft of his identity.

"Bastards!" he yelled, slamming the printouts onto the table. A few sheets of paper skidded to the edge and fell to the floor. He buried his face in his hands and began breathing deeply in and out, as he'd been taught to do at the VA many years before.

Haskell wisely said nothing. He waited.

Minutes passed before Ben had collected himself enough to moan, "God almighty, what did I do to deserve this? _All_ of this?"

"I'm sorry, Ben," Haskell said at last. He began retrieving the fallen papers from the floor. "I'm...uh...well, sorry. I know this is a tough time-"

_" A tough time?"_ repeated Ben, the sarcasm as thick as syrup. "A tough time? __ In less than a week, my entire life has been destroyed. _Burned. "_

"I know. But look, for what it's worth, we've contained the damage, okay? All your accounts are frozen, and I've reported your name and social security number as stolen. The Niz won't be able to take anything else from you."

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to regain his composure. A few seconds later, he mumbled, "Thank you. Really. I'm royally screwed, but I'm sure it would have been worse without your intervention." He sighed. "Jesus, how am I ever going to undo all that damage?"

He let another second pass before he looked at Haskell. "You know the most pathetic part of all this? Despite your warning, I was beginning to like these people. Even trust them, to some limited degree. Fiela, especially. She seems so damned....I don't know. Innocent. She seems incapable of lying."

"Those are the best at what they do. I bet she's also the friendliest?"

Ben didn't need to answer. Haskell, reading his face, said, "Yeah, she is, huh? They're playing some variant of the good cop-bad cop schtick. Lilian is the bad cop, right? She's all business, treats you like shit, and always seems to be scheming some new plot. Fiela is the good cop. Simple, pretty, naïve, loyal, and loving. She's convinced you she's the one you can trust. And good old uncle Ridley treats you like the son he never had. He's the wise one, above the fray who only wants what's best for you."

"I'm an idiot," said Ben. The sense of betrayal was palpable. It hurt. "Jesus! Even after you told me they were conning me, I _still_ fell for it! How stupid can a man get?"

This time it was Haskell who was mute.

Ben said, "Alright, that's it. You've got to get me out of here. Now."

"I'd like to, Ben. Except..."

"What?"

The agent leaned forward and looked from side to side as if someone might be listening. "Have you been completely forthcoming with me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're not hiding anything, right? Something you think isn't a big deal, but might be?"

The other man was mystified. "I don't understand. I'm not hiding anything."

Haskell tilted his head and again scratched behind an ear. His expression was skeptical.

"I can't work with you if you won't come clean with me."

"About what?"

"These so-called scripts."

Ben gave a pathetic laugh. "I just told you. There are no scripts."

"But Ridley says there are, and he put this weird device in front of you that was supposed to generate a projection of the scripts or something like that, right?"

"That's what I assumed. But there was no projection. Maybe it's supposed to use some form of telepathic communication."

"Telepathic?" Haskell looked oddly interested in the possibility.

"I" m not saying it _actually_ communicates telepathically, Larry. I'm not a nut. I'm saying that's how Ridley implied it worked after I told him nothing happened. Or, I don't know, maybe he has some other fantastic concept in his broken mind as to how a long tin can is supposed to communicate with humans. The sky's the limit."

"You maintain that you saw nothing?"

"No, I don't 'maintain' anything. _There are no scripts._ I didn't see anything because there was nothing to see. The so-called device was just a big black tube with a tiny hole in it. If I had to guess, I'd say it was some crappy piece of modern art that Ridley found somewhere in Steepleguard and used as a prop. It didn't do anything because it _can't_ do anything."

Haskell looked disappointed. Leaning back, he said, "Well, maybe. Maybe that thing is a prop, like you say. But there _are_ scripts, Ben. We know there are. By 'scripts' I mean 'plans.' I need them. I need to know what these people are up to, and right now, you're the only person I've got who has a way of finding them."

Ben had an uneasy feeling. "Are you going to help me or not?"

"I am. Really. Just not yet. It's too soon. There's more than your credit score at stake here. I'm sorry, but I need a little more before I can cut you loose."

"Then I'll find my own way down the mountain."

Haskell shook his head. "No, Ben, you won't. They won't let you. Even they did, or you somehow evaded them, I'd have you picked up and brought back. I need you here."

"You'd _what? "_

"I'd have you brought back."

Ben gaped at the man. "I wouldn't come back. You couldn't make me, and you can't _abduct_ me. I know my rights. I'll explain the killings at the motel. I'll get my own lawyer-"

"Forget the killing of the cops. That's small potatoes. Sure, you can defend yourself against that charge. It'll be brutal, but you might just come out on top. But what'll you do when the FBI charges you with conspiring with terrorists to commit genocide?"

Ben's blood turned to ice. "What?"

"Or of complicity in the spread of Cage's disease? You, Ben Mitchell, a Marine who was mentally unhinged by a terrible event in Afghanistan and, years later, facing bankruptcy, snapped."

Haskell snapped his fingers to emphasize the last word.

"A smart man with an advanced degree who decided that the world needed a fresh start, free from the evils of capitalism, communism, and every other 'ism.' An anarchist, in other words. A man who, after communicating with a known terrorist group, infected another man in his apartment building with the most deadly disease known to man."

Ben just managed to say, "You're blackmailing me?"

"No, sir. I'm serving my country. That's what you should be doing."

Shocked by the agent's audacity, Ben stood. "You're making a big mistake," he said. "You should take me in now and let me tell your superiors everything I know. I could be dead tomorrow. If what you've told me is true, I'm all you've got."

Haskell shrugged. "I can say the same, can't I?" He pointed toward the door. "Get me something, Ben. Something actionable. Then we'll find a way to get you out of this madhouse. Not before then."

# 40

Ben charged back to Steepleguard. His anger was untethered and grew with each step. He'd been used by everyone around him for days. Ridley, Lilian, Fiela, and now, even Haskell. He'd been the penultimate _chump_.

No matter how he looked at things, no matter what prism he used, his life was over. Financially, he was ruined. His reputation, and thus his career, already in the crapper, was destroyed. The police wanted him for accessory to the murder of two of their own. He was stranded on a mountain with insane anarchists who might kill him at any moment. The CIA or whoever Haskell worked for had decided that Ben was disposable, and Haskell, at least, was more than ready to label the former Marine a terrorist if Ben dared to disobey the agent's orders. Failure to comply meant that Ben would be brutally interrogated and afterward spend the rest of his life in some dank, solitary cell, hated by the world for generations to come.

Or maybe he'd be executed, which, all things considered, seemed like the happiest ending he could hope for.

Never mind that the world was going to hell and that even if he somehow evaded everyone who was after him - the police, the government, and the Nisirtu - there was a good chance he'd eventually contract Cage's and die twitching and half out of his mind in some rat-infested alley.

He crashed through the doors of Steepleguard, letting the giant doors slam loudly against the walls behind them, and jumped the stairs leading to his suite three at a time. Breathing hard, he flung the door of his room open and charged inside.

Fiela was there, looking startled. She was holding a bath towel losing around her body, her hair wet.

She was holding his wallet.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ben yelled.

The girl looked terrified as the man rushed toward her. She recoiled as he grabbed his wallet. Enraged, Ben launched the wallet toward a far wall with all his strength. It made a loud 'thump' and bounced to the floor.

"I'm sorry," Fiela said, her voice raspy and weak, her face pink.

Ben stood over her, his hands on his hips. Spittle flew from his mouth.

"You've taken everything from me. _Everything."_ He pointed angrily at the wallet on the other side of the room, now lying open. _"_ Everything except the three lousy bucks in my wallet. Is that what you want, Fiela? My last three dollars? Is your victory not complete until you take every last cent from me, even _that?"_

Fiela raised her hands in front of her. _"Mutu_ , please-"

_"SHUT UP!"_ the man yelled. He felt a burning sensation in his lungs and throat. "You're the worst of them, Fiela, or whatever the hell your name really is. You're demented. You're _certifiable!"_

The girl, tears in her eyes, fell to her knees. "Please, Mutu, it's not what you think."

"Oh?" said Ben, in a weirdly sinister tone that even he didn't recognize. "What I think is that you were stealing my wallet." He put his hands on his hips. "Is _that_ what you were doing?"

The girl let out a pitiful moan and nodded. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Lilian told me too."

"Right. The bad cop."

"The what?"

A wave of vertigo washed over him. He swayed , steadied himself. "Get out."

"But-"

"Don't say another word, Fiela. Not one. Just leave. _Now."_

The girl emitted a terrible, sorrowful wail that chilled Ben to the core. But he knew that it was fake. Everything about her and everyone else he knew was fake. They were all just demons waiting their turn to snack on his soul.

As Fiela moved slowly past him, sobbing, Ben said, "Don't come back. I don't want to see you again. _Any_ of you."

* * *

Ben didn't want to be where anyone could find him. He didn't want to ask any more questions, and he didn't want to listen to any more convoluted explanations. He just wanted to be alone so that he could think. He'd spent the past three days doing what he'd been told to do by others. It was time that he devised his own plans on his own terms.

He thought about going to the tablet vault, since only he and Ridley had access to it, but realized that would be the first place his Nisirtu hosts would think to look for him. He also considered the warehouse next to Haskell's cottage but didn't want to take a chance on waking the agent, which seemed likely in a metal building full of garden tools.

He eventually decided on the loft above a twenty car garage on the east side of the estate. He brought with him a bottle of bourbon, liberated from his room's maximum-sized mini bar, a notebook, two of the smaller Tiwanaku tablets, and the bottle of 'red' flavored pills that Ridley introduced to him that morning. Or, as he now thought of them, the euphoria _pills._

He suspected that it might be dangerous to pop the euphoria pills while drinking bourbon, which he planned to do in excess, but he didn't care. Screw it. If one of the soul-munching demons around him found him dead tomorrow morning, they were free to hang his corpse from a pole and throw rocks at it. He was cool with that.

Reclining against a pile of old car covers he found in the loft, he chased down a euphoria pill with his first swig. As the magical pill took effect, the man decided he was cool with just about everything.

# 41

Ben dreamed.

He saw a castle and next to it a glorious and horrible crystal cathedral with a spire that reached miles into the sky. The castle's walls were stained red by the black light of twin suns shining through a sinister sky of purple fractus clouds. A king sat inside the castle; a king that had once dreamt of another world, a world much like Ben's. A king who thought himself a god.

There was a man with Ben, pointing out the castle as if it was great importance, but he only remembered the man's outstretched arm and baritone voice. His words were lost, though Ben felt like they were words of warning. Something like, "Be careful, he has seen you now," though not exactly that. The voice was not Ridley's, yet he felt Ridley's presence.

There was something, too, about a war.

" _Hurry,_ " said the man he could not see. " _They are coming!_ "

"Who?" asked Ben.

His question was answered by a television flickering to life. It hasn't been there before, but it was now.

It was one of the old-fashioned cabinet televisions from the 1960s, unique only in that it had a red cushion on top. Ben kneeled in front of the television and stared at the screen, which was out of focus. He turned the knob, changing the channel, and the screen was filled with a head. A talking head, with a map of the world behind it.

Ben laughed. It was Albert Einstein's head. Albert Einstein wasn't a newscaster, was he?

Einstein said, "Listen," so Ben stopped laughing. He didn't want Einstein mad at him.

But it wasn't Einstein anymore. It was Marilyn Monroe.

With a British accent. She said, "Listen."

God, she was a beautiful woman. She was British, though? No, she was...

But then it wasn't Marilyn Monroe. It was a man in a red robe. One like Ridley's. But it wasn't Ridley.

He said, "Listen."

The man held up a piece of paper and began speaking. Ben read the words written on the paper.

> _[START BASTION SCENARIO, VARIANT QQ6] 5K WHPB. R.W.F./press/ to query about Chinese military advisors in West Africa. WHPS: U.S. views presence as destabilization of region. [RR894] PRC to respond 2330Z Advisors have decreased terrorism threat in region/are stabilizing influence [RR899] French P.M. to rebut Chinese claims 0830Z plans to send advisors to former colonies to counter Chinese influence. [RR914] U.S.S. CV GEORGE WASHINGTON - Start ENG RM FIRE, REDIRECT JAPAN. [RS442V2] PRC CV TO SPRAT ISLG_

There was a strange tone, and the man in the robe again said, "Listen." He held up another sheet of paper, on which was written:

> _[FORGER FORGER FORGER T115] 3K PKK attack BTC pipeline @ VIC454n.9j51. +/- 13HR [CB44] AZ troops to POA [CB56] Georgia troops to POA +10Z [CB667] Turkish response +35Z. [REFERENCE QQ6/QQ7/QQ14 - SCENARIO RUNTIME 1,034 HRS] REGIONAL [QQ6]._

There was another tone, another command to "Listen," and another piece of paper.

> _[REFERENCE QQ6/QQ7/QQ14 - SCENARIO RUNTIME 2,580 HRS] 3K RIP T.W.G.(BBC) v RSB @ PANTAKI SWASIA [2K DIRECTIVE, REF PINHOLE SCENARIO w SOKUSCRIPT 988 - IN PRGS] 4K LABOR STRIKES BUDAPEST, UKRAINE, PARIS. ANTI-GLOB/ANARCH. 3 RIP MIN. 2K PINHOLE 1,044 HRS REMAINING. EXTERNAL COORDINATION 3K. [QQ7-8-9]_

The cycle continued. A report was shown and read, and then another, and then another. It never seemed to end, but it also seemed to take no time at all. Ben felt that the reports were not really sequential. That was an illusion. The reports were simultaneous.

_Tone. Listen. Tone. Listen. Tone. Listen. Tone. Listen...Tone.Tone.Tone..._

_Listen!_

# September 25

> To recognize the malice, cunning, and hypocrisy that power produces, and the peculiar ruthlessness often shown by people from "good families."
> 
> * * *
> 
> Marcus Aurelius, _Meditations_ (Debts and Lessons)

# 42

Haskell was jolted from sleep by a hard banging on his cottage door. He rolled out of bed and quickly pulled on a pair of pants, then hobbled barefoot to the entrance. Opening the door, he found Ben.

"Jesus, fella, what happened to you?"

Ben looked like he'd just crawled from the grave. His pants were grimy, his shirt unbuttoned and his face caked with grease and dirt. He had a day's growth on his face. His skin was almost white, and his eyes pink. There was a large leather satchel at his feet.

He said, "We need to go, Larry. Now. _Right now._ "

Haskell pulled the man inside and, after looking outside, shut the door. Fastening the ends of his belt that were still dangling in from his pants, the agent said, "We talked about this yesterday, Ben. I'm not taking you anywhere until my mission is complete."

Ben nodded and handed him a sheet of paper. "Right. The scripts. You want the scripts."

Haskell scratched his chest with one hand as he took the sheet of paper with another.

"What's this?"

"Read it."

The other man did. He saw:

> _[START BASTION SCENARIO, VARIANT QQ6] 5K WHPB. R.W.F./press/ to query about Chinese military advisors in West Africa. WHPS: U.S. views presence as destabilization of region. [RR894] PRC to respond 2330Z Advisors have decreased terrorism threat in region/are stabilizing influence [RR899] French P.M. to rebut Chinese claims 0830Z plans to send advisors to former colonies to counter Chinese influence. [RR914] U.S.S. CV GEORGE WASHINGTON - Start ENG RM FIRE, REDIRECT JAPAN. [RS442V2] PRC CV TO SPRAT ISLG - - [FORGER FORGER FORGER T115] 3K PKK attack BTC pipeline @ VIC454n.9j51. +/- 13HR [CB44] AZ troops to POA [CB56] Georgia troops to POA +10Z [CB667] Turkish response +35Z. [REFERENCE QQ6/QQ7/QQ14 - SCENARIO RUNTIME 1,034 HRS] REGIONAL [QQ6]._ — _[REFERENCE QQ6/QQ7/QQ14 - SCENARIO RUNTIME 2,580 HRS] 3K RIP T.W.G.(BBC) v RSB @ PANTAKI SWASIA [2K DIRECTIVE, REF PINHOLE SCENARIO w SOKUSCRIPT 988 - IN PRGS] 4K LABOR STRIKES BUDAPEST, UKRAINE, PARIS. ANTI-GLOB/ANARCH. 3 RIP MIN. 2K PINHOLE 1,044 HRS REMAINING. EXTERNAL COORDINATION 3K. [QQ7-8-9]_

"Where'd you get this?" Haskell asked, looking up and staring at Ben intently.

"I've got today's scripts."

"Where?"

"I've hidden them. This is just a sample. Is it what you're looking for?"

"I don't know. It looks right, but..." He motioned Ben toward a chair.

Ben sat. Haskell recovered his satellite phone, which he'd placed beneath the bed the night before. He was expecting an important call and didn't trust himself to hear the incoming call signal if the phone was under the floorboards behind the desk.

A minute later, Ben heard the man talking to someone in a muffled tone and deduced that Haskell was authenticating his identity. Ben didn't listen in. He knew from his time in the military that the authentication procedure was different every time, and he had no way of using it, anyway.

Having evidently appeased the person on the other end of his call, Haskell began speaking in a normal tone. He read the entirety of the page which Ben had handed him, stopping twice to repeat a number sequence.

Then, he waited. Minutes passed.

"Uh-huh," said the agent, at last, looking at Ben. "Affirmative. Right. Understood. Right. I'm bringing him in."

The agent punched a button and said, "Twenty minutes ago there was an explosion and fire in an engine room aboard the U.S.S. George Washington. It's in the South China Sea. Early reports are that the damage is significant." He put his hands on his hips. "Guess where it'll need to go for repairs."

"Japan," said Ben, not guessing.

"Right. You did it, Ben. Congrats. Where are the other scripts?"

"I'll tell you when you get me to safety. You can send your people here to retrieve them."

Haskell shook his head. "I'm not making deals with you. I need those scripts _."_

"No deals, then," said Ben. He rose and began to move toward the door.

_"Whoah whoa,"_ said Haskell, holding his hands up in surrender. "We'll do it your way. Do the Niz know that you've got the scripts? Are they looking for you?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Haskell took a second to think. "My truck is outside. You get in the truck bed, and I'll cover you with a tarp. When we're a few miles outside the main gate, I'll stop, and you can get into the cabin."

Ben nodded. "Now?"

"Now."

# 43

Fiela was inconsolable. Her throat raw, she croaked, "I hate you! You have ruined me!"

Lilian cradled the girl in her arms, rocking her back and forth. "We did nothing wrong, Fiela. Nisirtu cannot have money. You know that. What if he had pulled out his wallet at the reception? He might as well have pulled a pile of steaming dung form his pocket. We could not take the chance."

"We could have asked him for it," the girl sobbed. "We could have just told him the truth. He would have understood."

"I expected you to tell him the truth if he caught you."

"He didn't give me a chance!"

More sobs.

"Why did you leave?"

"He made me! You _know_ I cannot lie to him. Oh, Sister, if you had seen the hate in his face. The disgust! _He despises me!"_

"But how could you not hear him coming?"

"He came so fast! He was so angry! I did not even plan on taking it. Not _then._ I was there only to-"

"I know why you were there."

"Oh! What was I thinking?"

Lilian rocked the girl a bit longer before pulling back and holding her at arm's length.

"Wait," she said. "He was _already_ angry?"

"Yes. Mutu slammed the main door open and ran up the stairs, and his face was twisted, even before he saw me."

"What would make him that angry?"

Fiela grabbed another tissue from the box in the woman's lap. She waved it in the air like a white flag. "I don't know!"

Lilian took the tissue and went to work on the girl's wet face. "It matters, Fiela. Ridley last spoke to him in his study, when he was demonstrating how the script cauldron works. He said that Ben seemed disappointed, but not angry. What happened between then and the time he found you? That's what we need to know."

"Why?"

"Because whatever happened after he viewed the scripts sent him over the edge. Not you. You know him, Sister. Do you think he would have lashed out so harshly simply because you were holding his wallet?"

Fiela sniffled. "No," she replied, her voice tiny.

"What did he say? Tell me again."

Fiela thought. "Something like, 'now you want my last three dollars' or 'now you're taking my last three dollars!'"

Lilian considered this. "That means he knew that I had scripted his accounts to be closed or corrupted."

"You did that? _Why?"_

"He can't have money, Fiela. We've talked about this. Ridley and I turned the accounts over to fetches with a command that they ruin his credit - what a terrible, filthy, slave word - to prevent him from opening any new accounts, in the off-chance that he somehow made it back to the Ardoon. We wanted to conclude the matter once and for all, and this seemed the best way to do it."

Lilian gave the girl another tissue. "But how did he know what we'd done? Someone must have told him. Someone here, at Steepleguard. That's the only explanation."

Five seconds passed.

Fiela's eyes widened. "A spy?"

Lilian nodded. "A spy."

# 44

The first two hours of the trip were rough.

The bed of Haskell's truck was coated in mud and manure. Several sharp garden tools slid left and right with each high-speed turn. Ben held his satchel in front of him like a shield, but that did nothing to protect him against the bruising effects of being thrown two inches into the air each time the truck's tires hit bump or pothole.

But just as he'd promised, Haskell did eventually pull over to let Ben sit in front.

The escapee, his body aching, climbed painfully over the side of the truck bed. "Oh God, that hurt."

"Sorry, man," said Haskell through the open passenger side window. "I had to move fast."

"I get it." Hugging his over-stuffed satchel against his chest, Ben struggled to open the door.

"You can leave your bag in the back, man. You'll be a lot more comfortable without that thing on your lap. It looks like you've got a load of crap in it."

"It's not crap," replied the researcher, grunting as he launched himself into the truck with herculean effort. "It's the only three books I have left and some precious tablets that will be dust if they keep bouncing around in the back of your truck."

Haskell put the truck into gear, and they began to roll forward. "Tablets?"

"Stone tablets," Ben said, his head tilted back as he fought to catch his breath. "They're the bait that the Nisirtu used to lure me to Steepleguard. I don't plan on letting them end up on the black market."

"Valuable?"

"Priceless. I didn't get all of them. Just two. I'm hoping your people can save the others. If not, we'll at least have these." He patted the worn leather bag.

The two rode in silence for another few minutes before Ben said, "Larry, can you tell me what agency you work for now? I'll find out when we get where we're going anyway, right?"

"Nothing exotic, I'm afraid. Good old-fashioned Central Intelligence." He turned. "I hope I didn't get your hopes up by being all cagey."

"No. I've learned to temper my hopes." He checked his watch. "I'm a little disoriented. How long before we get to where we're going?"

"Not long. I need to ditch this truck. The Niz know what it looks like. Some of my people from Denver are on their way up the mountain. We'll meet them at a rendezvous point and continue back to Denver in their car."

"Sounds like a plan," said Ben.

Because it did.

# 45

"The head groundskeeper is missing," said Fiela, rushing into the Great Hall and interrupting a conversation between Lilian and Ridley. "He left almost two hours ago."

"Larry Haskell," said the scribe. "We hired him six months ago."

"Was he screened?" asked Lilian.

"Of course."

"Then someone got to him." She looked at Fiela. "No Ben?"

The girl shook her head. "I tracked his movements to the garage on the east side, and then to the building the gardener stays. The foreman or whatever. It disappears there."

Lilian turned and said, "Ridley, can you script an intercept?"

"I think that would be unwise."

"Why?"

"Because our enemies will see it. _And_ our friends. It will undo everything. We will have to take care of this ourselves."

Fiela pulled a pistol from the holster in the small of her back. Checking the magazine, she said, "They have a two-hour head start. I cannot hope to catch them by car. I'll summon the pilot. He can be here in ten minutes."

Lilian said, "Hurry!"

When the girl disappeared, Lilian brought her hands together in front of her chest. Her worried expression vanished. It was replaced with a sly smile.

"That went well, did it not? Your script is a work of art, truly."

Ridley checked his watch. "Not exactly. It's running two hours behind schedule. I must be getting old."

# 46

"You want to see one of them?" Ben asked.

"What?" asked Haskell, checking his speedometer. He was driving fast. Too fast. He lifted his foot slightly and checked his rearview mirror. No one was following them.

"The tablets."

The driver shrugged. "Don't expect me to be wowed. I'm sure they're important, but old rocks aren't my thing."

Haskell watched from the corner of one eye as Ben rummaged through the satchel. He saw several objects wrapped in towels, in addition to some old leather-bound books and a few bottles of water. Ben put one of the objects in his lap and began removing the towel, then said, "Not this one."

"They're all the same to me, Ben."

"No, the one I want to show you has some weird creatures carved into one side. It's really interesting."

"Whatever."

Ben pulled out another towel-wrapped object, this one cylindrical and about a foot in length. This object, unlike the others, had duct tape wrapped around the towel that enclosed it. It looked as if an entire role of the thick gray tape had been used. The object was practically mummified.

Ben absently placed it on the seat between himself and Haskell and continued rummaging.

"What's that?" asked the driver, glancing down.

"What?"

"The long thing, there," the driver said, nodding sideways.

"Evidence."

"Oh yeah? Of what?"

"Fraud."

Haskell gave the object a longer look. "Fraud? I don't get it."

Ben pulled a bottle of water from his satchel and began unscrewing the cap. "I'll show you when we meet up with your agency friends."

A few seconds passed before the driver said, "I'd rather not be surprised. Not in front of my team. Tell me now."

Ben shook his head. "It's all wrapped up, Larry, and it's hard to explain." He checked his watch.

Haskell took his eyes off the road long enough to give the man a hard look. "Seriously, why do you keep checking the time?"

Ben popped a euphoria pill into his mouth and took another drink. "I don't know. It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

It wasn't. The sky was overcast, and the horizon was dark, promising storms.

Haskell looked at him, confused, and then at the object on the seat. A layer of cold sweat began to ooze from the pores on his forehead.

He licked his lips and said, "That, um..." He cleared his throat and again glanced down. "That's about the shape of that modern art thing you told me about."

"Modern art?" asked Ben, giving the man a quizzical look. "When did _we_ talk about modern art?"

"The script thing, remember?"

There was a newfound urgency in Haskell's words. His eyes kept nervously darting to the object next to him, to the point that he momentarily lost control of the truck as they approached a turn he didn't see coming. The tires squealed as Haskell slammed on the breaks and turned hard left to avoid a guardrail. The truck came to a stop.

"Whoa," said Ben, gripping the dash. "You okay, Larry?"

"No!" said the other man. "I'm not. Look, I'm saving your ass, and I'm not in the mood to play games. What the hell is that thing?"

"It's a figurine," said Ben. "Mesopotamian. I think the Nisirtu bought it off the black market after the national museum in Iraq was plundered. It needs to be returned to the government of Iraq."

Haskell wiped at the sweat on his face and gave a sick chuckle. "You're lying."

"I'm not," said Ben, again checking his watch.

"You son of a bitch," Haskell said, picking the mummified object off the seat. "You're so goddamn stupid!"

He reached into one of his pockets with a trembling hand and withdrew a pocket knife, which he used to tear the duct tape. Talking more to himself than Ben, he said, "You're going to get us both killed."

Ben laughed. It was his first genuine laugh in a long, long time. The pills played a role in that, of course, but the real genesis of his joy was that for the first time in days, he was in control. He knew something that no one else knew. He held the strings.

He said, _"Attis tak ibinash Nisirtu?"_

"Of course not," replied Haskell, cursing as his knife got fouled in the tape.

Too late, he realized his mistake. He looked up at Ben, who nodded.

# 47

"You're not Nisirtu, but you understand Agati?

Haskell, his breathing heavy, lowered his eyes to the object in his hands. "Of course not. You pick up a few words when you're around those people. That's all."

"They don't speak it around Ardoon, Larry. Besides, until a few days ago the only Nisirtu speaker here was Ridley, and he had no one to talk to. Lilian and Fiela arrived with me. Ridley tells me there's few advanced Akkadian speakers left, which is why the scripts have to be issued in Ardoon languages, too. You wouldn't have had much opportunity to overhear it from your cottage, or the gardens, and I seriously doubt that you'd ever be able to pick up a phrase such as, 'Are you an agent of the hidden ones?'"

This time it was Haskell that laughed. "Not true. You learned it, didn't you? In just a few days."

"Yes, but I'm a linguist who has spent the last three or four days eating and living with the Nisirtu and hearing them talk to each other, and I've had formal training in a variety of ancient languages, to include, as it happens, Akkadian, which is the basis for Agati." He tapped the bag on his lap. "Language is my _thing."_

"You're delusional," the other man said, resuming his cutting.

"Maybe. But I have to wonder why you're so nervous about what's buried in that towel?"

This time it was Haskell that laughed, though darkly. "Because you slipped up. You told me the dimensions of that thing you called the 'cauldron,' remember? This isn't some statue from Iraq. It's that thing you described. The script thing. The 'toy.'"

Ben shook his head. "No, the thing you're holding is a decoy. The real one is in the back of the truck."

Haskell's paranoia appeared to increase ten-fold. His eyes looked like they might burst out of his head. "What? Where?"

He looked out the window of the cabin toward the tarp-covered bed, then back at Ben. "Bullshit. Why would you have done that? You wouldn't have known to do that."

Ben checked his watch again.

"Damn it!" screamed the other man, attacking the taped object with greater ferocity. Huge beads of sweat were dripping from his face onto the dusty seat of the truck. His movements were frantic. "When did you take this?"

"That?" asked Ben, "Or the thing in the back of the truck?" He popped another pill into his mouth. Life was a wonderful thing. He wondered how much longer he'd enjoy it.

"Damn you! I should just kill you now."

"That'd suck. I was hoping to go out with a bang."

Haskell growled. "I'm going to gut you..."

He stopped speaking as the last sliver of tape gave way, and the towel fell open. In his hand, Haskell saw a section of iron pipe. Mystified, he tilted it and watched as gravel poured out, some rocks bouncing off the seat and onto the floorboard.

"Decoy," said Ben. "Like I said." He turned sideways in his seat, placing his left arm atop it. Looking into Haskell's angry but confused eyes, he said, "I never told you that the cauldrons were explosive, Larry, and I never told you that they were on a timer. But, I didn't need to, did I?"

The other man sighed and threw the towel on the seat. A long moment passed before he managed a grin. "Clever slave."

"Aren't I? That's what the girls tell me. By the way, since we will probably die together, who's your real boss?"

"Can you not guess?" asked Haskell, throwing the pipe to the ground outside the truck. It impacted the road with a loud clank before rolling into an adjacent ditch.

"I'd guess Moros. If you were Maqtu, I think your people would have had a hard time getting past the screening that must be required before a fetch is hired. The Nisirtu are 'all-seeing,' or so I've been told. I'm sure the rebels are a sophisticated lot, but to infiltrate the Seven and not get caught requires an insider. Someone who has access to the Seven's scripts. Moros clearly has a personal interest in Lilian's plans, and, weirdly enough, me. I doubt the Maqtu care about either. They've got a bigger war to fight."

He took another sip of water. "I still don't know why I matter to any of you. I thought maybe it was the tablets, but no one seems to care about them. You didn't ask for them, for example. Ridley doesn't seem to care if or when I translate them. Lilian and Fiela haven't even mentioned them since we left Denver. But if it's not the tablets, what is it? What makes me worthy of kidnapping?"

Haskell said, "I don't know, slave. None of us do. My only task was to turn you against your hosts and have you spy on them for us. You were in an ideal position. When you proved to me that the scripts were shared with you, we knew that you were the real thing. The Great Sage would have never shared scripts with someone he did not have plans for. This made you far more valuable.

"If you had not done what you did today," he motioned at the pipe in the ditch, "the play could have continued. You would have been briefed by 'the agency,' rewarded in some way that appeals to slaves, and then sent back to Steepleguard to continue spying for us. We had no plans to kill you. We could have used you even after the scripts concluded. You are – or were – too valuable to kill."

He raised his knife. "Now, of course, you are a liability. Your cleverness is your downfall."

Ben fixed his eyes on the knife. "I learned something very important from the scripts last night. Something that might interest you."

Haskell tried to appear disinterested but failed. He squinted at the man. "What?"

"You're scripted to die today."

The other man began to laugh but saw the sincerity in Ben's eyes. It wasn't until Haskell's mouth began to form the word "how" that he realized his prisoner's right hand was still in the satchel.

Ben pulled the trigger.

# 48

Ben sat in the truck for what seemed to him a very long time, the engine idling. He'd wrapped Haskell's body in a tarp and thrown it into the truck bed and then, as a precaution, he'd thrown a few of the garden tools and a bag of manure on top of it. More out of spite than necessity, he positioned the manure to rest atop the dead man's face.

He wasn't sure where he was. On the way up the mountain, days before, he'd be asleep. On the way down, this morning, he'd been hiding under the tarp. He'd tried to memorize the stops and turns that Haskell had made but found that they were now scrambled in his head, which meant replaying them backward was out of the question.

If the dead man had been telling the truth, there were more of Moros's Nisirtu down the road. How long would they wait before they decided to drive up the mountain to see what the delay was? Or would they turn around and go home, assuming the mission had been aborted? Ben wasn't sure.

Another question was how long it would be before Ridley, Lilian or Fiela realized that he was no longer at Steepleguard, and what they would do when they did. Would they come after him, or send someone to 'fetch' him? Which direction would they come from? Above or below?

Ben thought he had a good head-start on the Steepleguard Nisirtu. If he could find some side roads nearby, he might, just might, be able to avoid Haskell's people and make it to the bottom of the mountain.

What he'd do then was yet another question. He had to abandon the truck, of course, but he had no almost no money in his wallet and knew that all his credit cards were maxed out or canceled. Not that he'd even think of using them since _everyone in the world_ was hunting him.

He could steal a car, but it seemed inevitable that he'd eventually get pulled over by one of his numerous enemies. He realized that the only decision he was in a position to make was that of deciding who got to capture him.

That made things easier.

The scripts had revealed many things to him. They showed him that Lilian - or "Lilitu" as the scripts referred to her - was on parole from the Seven, and that she, Fiela, and Ridley were suspected of attempting to foil or manipulate a script that was very important to the Seven; a script referred to but never described.

The apocalypse script.

The scripts he'd seen also stated that he, Ben Mitchell, was in cahoots with his hosts, albeit for unknown reasons. The other Nisirtu seemed as mystified about his presence at Steepleguard as he was himself.

The scripts also revealed to Ben that Lilian and Ridley had scripted his financial destruction because only 'slaves' possessed or use money. The currency of the Nisirtu was _power_. He had, in this way, been "cleansed." He had received what amounted to a Nisirtu baptism.

Ben checked his watch a final time. Maybe he'd make it back to the top of the mountain, or maybe not, but there was nothing for him at the bottom. Not anymore.

He put the truck in gear and made a U-turn.

# 49

The shadows of a helicopter's rotors darkened the road in front of Ben, followed soon after by the _thump-thump-thump_ sound they made as they thrashed the air. His initial instinct was to hide, but he realized that was pointless. He wasn't sure who was flying overhead - police, military, or Nisirtu - but if they were coming for him by air, they were damn well coming for him. The helicopter crew had spotted him, and his coordinates were known. There'd be no hiding.

The helicopter disappeared over the trees, but he knew it would be coming back. He parked the truck, turned off the ignition, and stepped onto the road.

His back against the passenger side door and his hands in his pockets, he leaned back and stared up into the gray sky. If they wanted to shoot him, whoever they were, he'd make it easy for them.

Twenty seconds later, the helicopter returned. It was some ridiculously fancy business helicopter, large with sleek lines and darkened windows. Ben imagined it might have a kitchen on board. Maybe even a pool table. Or, a pool.

_So...Nisirtu._

But which Nisirtu?

The road a quarter-mile up was just wide enough for the craft to land. As it did, the researcher felt his face being pelted with dust and debris. For the briefest moment, he was in Afghanistan again, on the flight line. That little adventure had not ended well for him, and he thought this one might end even less well.

The whine of the helicopter's engines grew fainter as the rotors slowed. Ben saw a figure running toward him, gun in hand. It was Fiela.

She was a ridiculously fast sprinter. Her feet seemed barely to touch the ground as she raced forward. She was wearing some kind of spandex that was striped black and olive green, and small, black goggles hid her violet eyes. But there was no mistaking her athletic form or the long red hair that danced behind her as she zipped toward him.

He expected her to slow down, but she didn't, and too late he realized that she'd reach him at full locomotive speed. Before he could react, she collided with him, taking him hard to the ground and then, performing an exotic maneuver, she rolled him under the truck.

For a moment, his world was black. When it returned, he was staring up at a rusty, greasy axle. He tried to speak, but his chest hurt.

"Are you okay, Mutu?"

The man put his hand to his chest and found it was empty of air. The pain was excruciating.

"Mutu? Mutu!"

He felt the girl's soft hand on his cheek.

"Is there anyone else?" the girl asked.

Ben shook his head. "Just me," he rasped.

Fiela disappeared. He heard her circling the truck. A moment later, he felt himself being pulled out onto the road.

"I'm sorry, Mutu," the girl said, kneeling and inspecting the man for injuries. "I thought there might be an ambush."

Still fighting to suck in air, the man said, "Truck....bed. _Dead."_

Fiela's head jerked up, followed by her body. It took a single leap for her to go from the road to the truck bed, pistol in hand. Ben heard her pushing aside the garden tools, then opening the tarp.

Then, "Ha!"

She stood up and looked down him. "The gardener guy. You killed him?"

Ben struggled to a knee, nodding. Having found his breath, he said, "Moros. He worked for Moros."

Fiela beamed. "Well done, Mutu! Ha! Look at him! Dead as a log and twice as ugly!" She kicked the body and laughed again. "But where did you get a gun?"

Finally on his feet, Ben shambled forward and put his elbows on the tailgate. "I stumbled across one in the nightstand. It was loaded. Yours, I'm guessing."

"Oh. Yeah, one of my spares."

"How many spares do you have?"

_"Many._ But I love all my children."

Ben pulled some gravel from his hair. "Look, people are waiting for the dead guy down the road somewhere. I don't know how far. They might come looking for him."

The Peth warrior scanned the horizon. Seeing nothing, she knelt, bringing her face within inches of Ben's.

"Mutu," she said, "tell me what you want."

"What?"

"The pilot will take us anywhere you want to go. I promise. I am the only one here. We can go anywhere you want. Shall we go to Denver? Or some other place? I know the locations of all the safe places."

"Fiela," replied Ben, "there are no safe places. Not from the Nisirtu. You know that."

The girl scanned the road again. "Then what are we to do, Mutu?"

"We? Who is _we?"_

The girl removed her goggles to reveal her violet eyes. Though it was overcast, she squinted as if looking at the sun.

"You and me, Mutu. You need protection wherever you go. Your name is now known to our enemies, and even the Ardoon pursue you. You cannot survive on your own. Not anymore."

When the man didn't respond, she said, _"_ I will be like a shadow, truly. I will not be in your way. You will not even know I am there. I will not require conversation or..." She looked away.

"Or what?" asked Ben.

"Affection." She wiped her face with a forearm, gazing at some distant, invisible object. "I know you hate me. I have deceived you and twice almost caused your death. But things are different now that we are bound to one another. You can trust me now."

Ben removed a strand of hair from the girl's face. "Can I _really_ trust you, Fiela?"

Fiela looked at him. "Yes, Mutu."

Summoning all of his strength, Ben hoisted the girl gently out of the truck and onto the road. Holding her arms, he said, "Then there's something you're going to do for me."

"Anything, Mutu. What shall I do?"

Ben told her.

# 50

Lilian and Ridley met Fiela and Ben at the helipad at the rear of Steepleguard.

"Thank the gods," said Ridley, looking at the sky. "You're safe!"

As they moved away from the helicopter, Lilian said, "The man, Haskell - he was a spy?"

"Yes," said Ben."

"He's dead," said Fiela.

"Well done, Sister."

"It wasn't me," replied Fiela.

Lilian and Ridley stopped dead in their tracks.

"What?" asked Lilian.

"Our husband killed him," the girl said, still walking.

Lilian looked at Ridley, mouth agape. Ridley lifted his shoulders and eyebrows, signaling his own confusion.

The two hurried to catch up to the couple and said, "Ben killed the spy? Not you?"

"The guy was dead when I got there. Ben threw him into the back of the truck. We need to send a fetch to retrieve the vehicle."

Ridley, struggling to keep pace, said, "I'll see to it. But Ben, how did you know he was a spy?"

Ben stopped and turned. "I wasn't sure, at first. But I did a lot of thinking last night. I wondered why Haskell kept casting me as the savior of civilization but didn't ask me to plant any bugs or to take any photos. He didn't ask me to wear a wire. He didn't task me to do much of anything other than 'play along,' and he didn't seem to be doing much himself. Also, he knew everything about all of us. That implied the government already had a sophisticated surveillance program in place, but if that were true, I wouldn't have been nearly as important to him as he said I was."

He began moving again, compelling the others to follow him. He said, "After my encounter with Moros, and learning about the Maqtu, I began to wonder if Haskell was even Ardoon. I had a pipe wrapped in a towel that had the same dimensions and weight of a cauldron. Only a Nisirtu would suspect a pipe wrapped in a towel might be a script cauldron. I kept checking my watch as if worried about the time. He started sweating bullets, which convinced me that he suspected the object to be a cauldron. He'd know, if it was, that it would explode after a random amount of time."

They were walking through a long corridor toward the Great Hall.

Lilian said, "He cracked?"

"Yes. He pulled over and started tearing apart the towel I'd wrapped it in."

"Why didn't he just throw it away?" asked Fiela.

"Because doing so would have revealed his identity as Nisirtu. An Ardoon wouldn't have cared about a random object in a towel and would have had no reason to suspect it was a bomb. Only a Nisirtu would have wanted it out the truck. If he'd tossed it, he would be revealing himself as Nisirtu.

"Also, I told him it was a decoy and that the real cauldron was hidden in the bed of the truck. He was hoping the thing in the towel was the cauldron, because if it was, he could toss it and carry on with his mission. If he didn't, though, he'd need to search the truck bed. Either way, he had to know what was in the towel."

"Ah," said Ridley, exchanging glances with Lilian. "That was very...insightful. But how did you, um, kill him?"

"I borrowed one of Fiela's guns. It seemed prudent, given my situation. She didn't know, but I figured she wouldn't mind."

"Of course not, Mutu," said the girl.

"Incidentally," said Ben, "I didn't kill him because he was a spy. I killed him in self-defense. He had a knife and was planning to 'gut me,' in his words. You need to screen all of your staff," said Ben. "If Haskell made it past your vetting process, others might have, too."

"Already done. I've got a script underway that will detect anything else the Seven or the Maqtu might have sneaked past us. I'll have a report in an hour."

"Won't your enemies see it?"

"Not if I've done my job properly."

"Haskell made it past you."

"True," said the old man, "but now that I the Seven are actively attempting to infiltrate Steepleguard, I've been doubly careful."

They reached one of the grand staircases that led to the hundreds of rooms above and beyond.

Ben released Fiela and took a step back so that he could speak to all three of his hosts. "I'm going to get cleaned up. After that, we're going to gather here and have a little 'family meeting.'"

Lilian moved forward and placed a hand on his chest. "Mutu, wouldn't it better if you rested for awhile? I'm sure that-"

"Just you and Fiela," Ben interrupted. "You okay with that, Ridley?"

The old man looked surprised. His pace slowed. "Well...of course," he said.

Lilian looked even more surprised, but instead of speaking to Ben, she looked at Fiela. "Why so quiet, Sister? And why so glum? Our husband is safe, the spy killed."

Staring at the floor as she walked, Fiela said, "You will know, later."

Not hiding her concern, the woman said, "Why not now?"

"Because I told her to keep it a secret," said Ben, speaking over his shoulder.

Lilian's faced darkened. "Why? I do not like this. Fiela, tell me."

"No, Sister."

The woman flinched as if she'd received an electric shock. "What did you just say to me?" she asked, her voice tight.

"No, Sister."

Lilian's face turned pink. She gave Ben an angry look. "What is this game you're playing?"

Ben drifted up the long, winding stairs.

"My own," he said.

# 51

An hour later, Lilian entered the Great Hall and found Ben seated on one of the many leather sofas that faced the many dormant stone fireplaces. He was drinking from a cup, and she smelled the coffee. Fiela was standing next to him. The two were speaking in hushed tones.

She approached the pair as quickly as she could without seeming to be hurried. As she got nearer, the conversation stopped, and Fiela looked up at her.

"Well," the woman said, "it appears I've arrived late."

"No," said Ben, not turning. "You're on time."

Lilian forced a smile and moved past Fiela to take a seat on the sofa perpendicular to the one Ben was seated at, the corner of a coffee table between them.

Ben placed the cup on the table and patted the spot next to him. "Why don't you join me?" He raised both eyebrows. _"Asatu."_

Lilian glanced at Fiela, but the girl was looking at the floor. She said, "Asatu? You're learning our ways, at last, Mutu."

"Oh yeah," said Ben, patting the seat again. "I am. I really am."

Lilian stared at the spot he'd patted. "Are you asking me to sit next to you, or telling me?"

"Does it matter? Don't you want to sit next to your dear husband?"

Lilian hesitated. "Not at the moment, no. I don't like this curious behavior of yours."

Ben propped an elbow on the back of the sofa and surveyed the room as if looking for an explanation. "I don't know why. Surely, you're not afraid of me."

"I'm not," the woman said instantly. "But I would be more comfortable here, thank you."

Ben nodded, then tilted his head. "What if it was not a request, but a command? Say, from your king?"

Lilian attempted a laugh that died before it left her throat. "Is it?"

"Yes."

The woman saw Fiela lift her eyes from the floor and turn toward her. The girl's face hosted a firm resolve. It was an expression that Lilian had never seen on her sister before, and it scared her.

"I would _rather_ not," Lilian said, but as Fiela took a step toward her, she added, "yet, since you compel me, I shall."

She moved slowly across the oriental rug to the place Ben had identified and sat.

Ben said, "Thank you." He crossed a leg and leaned back. "I'd like you to come clean with me."

"About what?"

"Everything, of course. For example, the fact that there's a telephone here that works. Maybe a satellite phone. Or maybe it's a radio. But you've got something. We're not as isolated as you led me to believe."

"Why would you say that?"

Ben gave the woman a thin smile. "How else would Ridley know to send Mr. Fetch for us before Marcos landed? The helicopter was miles away when you and I heard it, but Mr. Fetch arrived almost immediately. It's a twenty-minute drive to the overlook from Steepleguard. Maybe fifteen, if he floored it. Ridley must have known the helicopter was on the way here before even Fiela heard it in the distance."

Lilian, gazing at the fireplace, said, "I imagine he was already on his way to the park when he heard the helicopter."

"Only twenty minutes after he'd left the park to go to Steepleguard?"

"Perhaps he'd forgotten something and turned around to retrieve it. It was a coincidence."

"No," said Ben.

"Oh? How can you be sure?" Lilian asked defiantly.

"Mr. Fetch came to a screeching halt in the parking lot when he returned to pick us up. Why would he drive so fast if he was just returning to get something he'd forgotten? What was it? His crack pipe?"

Lilian opened her mouth, as if expecting words to tumble out. When they didn't, she closed it.

Ben said, "Plus, you sent a helicopter after me when I left Steepleguard with Haskell. I don't recall seeing a helicopter here before and I doubt you have a pilot just hanging around waiting to take you somewhere. You had to call him in."

Lilian said nothing. She didn't need to.

"Fiela, is there a working phone here?" asked Ben.

Final sighed. "Yes, Mutu."

"Ah. Anything else?"

"A radio."

"Anything _else?"_

"There's a satellite phone, and a computer with internet access."

Ben smirked at Lilian. "You know, it really is good to be the king."

The woman rolled her eyes.

"Why, Lilian? Why did you seclude me here?"

The woman looked annoyed. "In truth," she huffed, "so that you didn't do something stupid. We wanted you to sign the contract. We couldn't take a chance on you calling the police or your own lawyer. We didn't want anything to happen that might interfere with the signing."

"And you couldn't let me leave," Ben said. "Right?"

"We certainly didn't _want_ you to leave, and yes, we tried to deter any spontaneous departure. But we would not have made you stay."

"I wonder."

Lilian gave him a smug look. "You're free to do so. It appears you've made a hobby of it."

"I have," replied Ben. "Fiela?"

"Yes, Mutu?"

"There's something I need to talk to Lilian about. Would you give us five minutes alone, please?"

"Yes, Mutu," the girl replied, her voice weak and unenthusiastic. She turned on one heel and left the room, taking the corridor that led to Ridley's study.

* * *

When she was gone, Lilian said, "What is this really about, Mutu?"

"Me. Isn't _all_ of this about me?"

"That sounds rather vain."

"Vanity must be a virtue among the Nisirtu. How can you control the world and not be vain?"

Lilian searched the man's face. "You accept the truth, then?"

"What is truth?"

Lilian nodded. "Exactly. You do understand, don't you? 'What is truth?' You've had an epiphany." She inched closer. "The scripts came to you, didn't they? You've _seen_ reality."

"Some of it. Some of it was hidden. It's the hidden part that worries me." He leaned in and said, "What's in the snow?"

Lilian, her fear evaporating, pulled his hands into hers. "You _have_ seen them."

"What's in the snow, Lilian?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Not even Ridley knows. That's what you see when a script is hidden from you. A beautiful white plain covered in snow. Evergreens in the background. Perfect silence. Yes?"

Ben nodded once. "Tell me."

"I don't know, Ben. Really."

The man looked into her eyes. "You're lying."

The woman was about to protest that she was not lying, but found herself unable to speak. She couldn't breathe.

There were a pair of hands around her throat.

They weren't Ben's.

Fiela increased the pressure when the woman began to flail her arms. The Peth was watching Ben, her face tight and lifeless, her eyes as bright as candles in the darkened room.

Lilian attempted in vain to grasp the girl's arms, but Fiela was behind the sofa and unreachable. The girl's body was motionless. She was as still and immovable as a statue. Her powerful arms were unbending. A few seconds passed before the girl winked.

This was the signal that she and Ben had worked out beforehand. Fiela was an assassin and knew exactly when a person being strangled was nearing a dangerous point of no return. Ben had told her to signal him several seconds before that point was reached. These signals were, of course, invisible to Lilian.

Ben said, "Less," and Fiela loosened her death grip by a quarter inch.

Lilian sucked in a tiny, precious amount of oxygen through her still compressed windpipe. As she did, she moved her wide, bloodshot eyes to look at the man next to her. She attempted to say something.

"More," said Ben.

Fiela squeezed. Lilian again began to flail her arms, though this time more randomly and weakly. Her face turned red.

Seconds passed. Lilian stopped flailing. Her eyes began to glaze over. Fiela blinked.

Ben said, "Less."

Lilian again gasped, but the amount of air she inhaled was still limited by Fiela's fingers. She slapped the leather cushion next to her twice, as if she were a wrestler conceding a fight. Fiela blinked.

"Less," said Ben.

Lilian took in a deeper breath. This was followed by a series of ragged coughs, her body twitching because her head was still pinned in place by Fiela. She eked out a single, raspy word. _"Stop."_

Ben looked at Fiela. Her hands remained in place around the woman's throat. She blinked twice, meaning anything further would be dangerous.

Ben said, "Lilian, what's in the snow? I know it's something important. Otherwise, you wouldn't have hidden it from me."

Lilian just managed to raise her hands to grasp Fiela's. It was a futile gesture. The hands around her neck were like iron clamps.

Ben looked back at Fiela and opened his mouth to speak, when Lilian blurted, "apocalypse!"

"Apocalypse?"

Lilian tried to nod but couldn't. "Apocalypse script," she said in a hoarse voice.

"What is it?" asked Ben.

Tears began to stream down the woman's cheeks. Her expression was one of absolute terror. "Don't...know... _please_..."

Ben studied her. At length, he said, "I believe you. But you've fooled me before. If I find out you're lying to me, Lilian-"

"No..." gasped the woman. "Not..."

Ben said, "Fiela, let her go."

Fiela did, and Lilian slipped off the sofa and onto her knees. She bent forward and noisily sucked in air, the effort interrupted by a coughing fit because her windpipe had not yet returned to its normal size.

Ben stood and gently assisted the woman back onto the opposing sofa.

Returning to his seat, he said, "Let's try again."

# 52

Lilian, again sitting across from Ben, took a sloppy sip of the tea that Fiela had brought her. Her hands trembled. Fiela had lain down on the same sofa as Ben and was now asleep, her head in his lap.

Ben said, "Why is the apocalypse script hidden from you and Ridley? And me?"

Her voice gravely, Lilian said, "It's a Monarch script." She coughed and fought to repress another. "Only for kings, queens, and their Peth lords."

"That means Moros knows what's in it."

Lilian nodded, winced, and closed her eyes. "He must."

"Not you, though? I find that hard to believe."

Lilian shook her head. Speaking slowly, she said, "I am a bastard. My father lost his throne. I cannot see the Monarch scripts."

Ben didn't reply immediately, in part to give Lilian a chance to rest her throat. "Only monarchs," he mumbled. "So..."

Suddenly, he understood - or thought he did. "Is _that_ what this is all about? Are you trying to make me a king so that you can access these hidden scripts?"

Lilian let out a ragged breath, coughed. "One reason."

"What are the others?"

"I can answer that," came a voice from the back of the room.

It was Ridley. He shuffled into the room, his slippers making the sound of sandpaper on wood as they slid across the floor. He approached Ben but did not sit. His arms behind him, he looked at Lilian, then Fiela, then Ben.

"Have I missed a family drama?" he asked.

Lilian spoke first. "No, Scriptus. I am just a little unwell. A sore throat. That is all." Touching her neck and swallowing with an effort, she said, "Ben saw the scripts. He has questions."

"I'm sure he does," said the scribe. "From what I overhead, he is also interested in why we brought him here."

Lilian nodded.

Ridley looked at Ben. "That was my doing. Yes, Lilian needed access to the Monarch scripts, and to do that she needed a husband who was king. But finding a husband for her was difficult. It could not be just any man. There were certain physical and intellectual minimums."

Ben said, "Why me? Why not a Nisirtu husband?"

"Putting aside the fact that you are, now, Nisirtu, the fact is that Lilian comes with a lot of baggage. Because of her past, and that of her father, she is not a desirable mate within Nisirtu society. Not that any Nisirtu male ever considered pursuing her. The son or daughter of a monarch can only marry with the monarch's consent, which meant Lilian should have remained unmarried for life. She was, as they say, 'not on the market.' It was only by giving you her father's ring that she maneuvered around that restriction. No one expected that."

"If it had to be an Ardoon, why me?"

Ridley pointed at the slumbering Fiela. "My niece also needed a husband. Peth are rarely allowed to choose their own mates. Their mates are selected for them. I was concerned that Fiela would soon be paired to an unacceptable Nisirtu, so I interceded. Since Fiela is bound to Lilian, I needed a man that met Lilian's criteria, and Fiela's, and mine, of course.

He lifted his chin into the air. "I was in a quandary. Can you imagine how difficult it was for me to find an Ardoon who might be willing to agree to a marriage contract - even a non-binding one, in Ardoon terms - to two females who are members of a secret society like ours?"

He began to pace, staring at his feet as he did so. "It seemed impossible. Years passed. But, at last, fate intervened. I needed the Tiwanaku tablets deciphered, which was quite a different matter, but in seeking a qualified expert, I found you. And, _the gods be praised_ , you checked every box for all my needs."

Ben waited for the scribe to continue. When he didn't, Ben said, "That's it?"

Ridley chuckled. "It that not of sufficient complexity?"

"Explain to me again how this crazy endeavor gets Lilian access to the apocalypse script."

"It's not _just_ the script, nephew. Yes, she wants to see the script, but what pains her is that it is denied her. It's the power that she wants. The power to see the apocalypse script and all others that are hidden from the eye of the Nisirtu citizenry."

"I still don't understand. How does everything you're doing get her that power? I thought the Fifth Kingdom, her kingdom, already has a king. You can't have two kings."

"No, but the king of the Fifth Kingdom, who replaced Lilian's father, has no offspring and is too old to produce any. Lilian, despite being illegitimate, has her father's blood in her veins, and you wear his ring. If we can convince other nobles that you and Lilian are contenders for the leadership of the Fifth Kingdom when the current king passes, we will be in a strong position to negotiate an arrangement with the Seven."

Ben made the connection. "That's what this so-called 'reception' tomorrow is really about, isn't it? It's a campaign rally. It isn't about my pseudo-marriage to Lilian or Fiela. It's about politicking the kingmakers."

Ridley stopped pacing and turned toward him. "It is part and parcel. Absent the marriages, there would be no reception and no ulterior need for one. Because of the marriages, there is justification for a reception, and we can use it to our advantage with the Seven. The question now is, will you help us?"

Ben ran a finger along the rim of the coffee cup next to him. The remaining coffee, now cold, vibrated slightly. He'd anticipated the question and was ready for it. "You like to make deals, so let's make a deal."

"Ah," the scribe said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. He looked at Lilian, who nodded. "Excellent. Yes. Let's be honest brokers, for once. You know what we want. Tell me what you require."

"A script," answered the researcher without hesitation.

Ridley's hands froze in place, as if suddenly glued together. "A script..."

"You write those for Lilian, don't you? Why not for me, her 'mutu?' Or, if you like, you're king?"

Lilian finally spoke. Her voice still raspy, she asked, "What will this script require?"

"For starters, my police record will be expunged, my credit record will be repaired, and everything that I've lost, tangible or intangible, will be replaced."

The scribe cupped his chin in one hand and scratched at his nose. "The money is an issue, nephew. Nisirtu cannot have money, and you cannot be king unless you are Nisirtu. Money is the tool of slaves. Unless you are open to the role of a king, you have nothing to offer us and nothing to bargain with. But I can have fetches provide for all your needs, whatever they are. There will be nothing that you desire which you cannot have, albeit through a middleman, which is our way. Would that suffice?"

Ben considered this. "It might." He paused. "I also want to pursue my career. I don't care what you call me, king or slave, so long as you leave me in peace. You don't really need me to rule anyway, right? Lilian can run whatever kingdom she ends up with."

He looked at Lilian. "I think you'd be fine with that, right? Me out of the way, and you doing your own thing as a queen?"

Lilian didn't respond, but she didn't appear at all opposed to the concept.

Ben ran a finger along Fiela's upturned cheek. "I also want Fiela to be set free."

Ridley frowned. "Free? I don't understand."

"I don't want her taking orders from anyone."

Ridley looked sincerely baffled. "Ben, she only answers to you and Lilian. In fact, aside from you two, she is the freest person on the planet. She answers to no one else. How many people, whether Ardoon or Nisirtu, have so few people to answer to? As for your authority, or Lilian's, you are not required to make her do anything. If you don't want her following orders, don't give her orders. It is as straightforward as that."

Ben nodded and said to Lilian, "I'm going to tell her not to do anything she doesn't want to do. I'm going to command it."

The woman crossed her arms and legs and attempted to appear indifferent. "Very well."

Ben looked back at Ridley. "One last thing."

"Yes?"

"I get to live."

Lilian leaned forward and squinted at him. _"To live?"_

"Yes. Any scripts that call for my sickness, injury or death will be rewritten or destroyed. I'm familiar with ancient history, and I'm somewhat familiar with the Nisirtu. I can easily imagine a scenario in which, after I get you what you want, I am taken out of the picture. It would, I'm sure, look like an accident. I also want a commitment that no _unscripted_ attempt will be made to harm me, either through action or inaction."

He held up a hand before the other two could reply. "Put yourself in my shoes. Wouldn't you ask for the same thing?"

Ridley exchanged glances with Lilian. "Well, yes," he admitted. "In fact, it would be the first thing I'd ask for. That's very prudent of you."

"I want that last part in writing, and made public."

Lilian laughed. "That is impossible, Mutu. You want Ridley and me to publicly state that we will not script your death?"

"Or cause it in any other way, by action or inaction," repeated Ben.

Lilian laughed again. "Surely you can't expect-"

Ridley interrupted her. "Let me think about this. Perhaps there is a way."

Lilian gave the scribe a reproving look.

Ridley said, "If I arrange for these things, nephew, you will play your part? Will you be a good host during the reception and play the part of a candidate for king? Will you treat Lilian and Fiela as your Nisirtu wives, and be civil, and, at least in public, pretend affection for them? Will you accept your role as Nisirtu and glorify our society when among our kind?"

Ben took a second to analyze the man's words, looking for trickery. He said, "Yes, unless it means doing something unethical. I won't allow any Ardoon to be harmed, for example."

"The power to prevent such harm comes with the crown. That should be an incentive for you to cooperate with us."

Ben took in a deep breath. He had no idea whether what he was doing was the right thing. He didn't see a feasible alternative. He extended a hand. "Deal."

Ridley shuffled forward and the men shook.

Ridley looked at Lilian. "Swear to all the terms upon your father's memory, and your honor, and your right to the throne. Swear that you will allow me to script your undoing if you violate this agreement."

Lilian took a very long time to respond. When she did, it was with a pensive face and in the weakest possible voice, "I swear."

Ridley grinned at Ben. "Ha! You are everything I'd hoped you would be, nephew. Well done."

# 53

Ben shook Fiela gently. Her eyes fluttered open.

"It's just you and me, kid," Ben said.

"Did it work?" she asked, lifting her head from his lap and sitting erect. There was no one else in the room.

"Maybe. Ridley agreed to my terms, but I don't know if he's going to keep his end of the deal."

"He will," said Fiela, drawing her knees to her chest. "He's very honest, Mutu."

Ben wondered how the girl could say that, given all that had transpired, but said nothing. It was evident to him that she loved the old man. Maybe she really believed what she said.

"Thanks for your help, Serretu."

"You're welcome," she said, wiggling her toes against the cushion. "It was harder than I thought it would be."

"Even though you knew it was all an act?"

The girl squinted at him. "An act?"

"Well...yeah," he said, furrowing his brow. "You signaled me when it was time for you to loosen your grip. Lilian was never in danger."

"Yes, but I was not sure you would _permit_ me to loosen my grip. You only told me to signal you when I thought the time was right."

Ben stared at her. "You mean you thought I might actually kill her?"

Fiela looked confused. "You told me you wanted to scare her into telling the truth. You did not tell me what your plans were, other than that. I was worried that if she didn't tell you what you wanted to hear..." She shrugged.

Ben shook his head. "I don't kill people, Fiela. That was never my intention."

"I'm glad," said the girl, examining the polish on her toes. "I love her very much, Mutu. I know she does not always please you, but she will try harder now."

"Fiela, my intention was not to terrorize her into pleasing me. I just wanted to scare her into coming clean. My life was at stake. It still is."

The Peth's face registered utter indifference. "Okay."

Ben looked away. He was deeply troubled by the girl's apparent admission that she was willing to kill Lilian, if directed, and, worse, that she thought he might require her to do so. Fiela's assumption that he was trying to discipline the woman through terror was also troubling. What kind of world did this girl grow up in that such things would be viewed as normal?

The Nisirtu world, of course.

He said, "Look, I think I'm going to sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight-"

This, at last, won him a reaction. Fiela sat rose to her knees, alarm on her face. "Why?"

"Because it's all getting very complicated, Fiela. Lilian and I just don't..." he made a gesture of hopelessness.

"You don't love one another. I know that. So? She still desires you, Mutu. I promise. And is she not very beautiful? What does love have to do with it? She is your wife."

"Yes, but given all that's happened, I don't think it's appropriate for us to be in the same bed."

Fiela's eyes drifted to one side. "May I stay with you?"

Ben took in a deep breath. "No. I don't want any ill-will between you and Lilian. You can see why that might happen if you stayed with me, right?"

"No," replied Fiela, shaking her head. She appeared genuinely perplexed. "She would be very happy if you and I coupled, in fact."

Her eyes darted back toward him. "Did we bore you last night, Mutu? Is that it? We can do better. Trust me, there is nothing Sister will not do. Or me." She gave him a sheepish grin. "When we had no others, she and I used to do _very_ decadent things. Let us show you. You need do nothing at all..."

She planted her soft lips against his ear and whispered, "Shall I punish her for you, Mutu? Would you like to see her bent over my knee, naked and begging for forgiveness? Would there not be justice in that? And then should she not do the same to me, for my insubordination?"

Ben felt the temperature in the room rising. With all his willpower, he turned and pushed the girl gently away. "Fiela, here's the truth. I don't know if you really want to be with me, or whether you just think you do."

"I want to," she said, slapping her hands against her knees. "Why don't you believe me?"

"Because I believe, now, that you truly do have a predisposition to do what you're told by anyone you view as a superior, and you were told to be my serretu. That means you feel obligated to do everything a serrtu should, right? Like having sex with me, for example"

The girl shrugged. "Of course. That doesn't mean I don't want to, though."

Ben looked into her eyes. "But have you really thought about it, Fiela?"

"Yes."

"No. I mean, _seriously_ thought about it? Is it possible that you've tricked yourself into believing you want something simply because you've been told you should want it? Me, as a husband, for example, Or...well, sex."

His words seemed to mean nothing to the girl. She said, "You think I'm lying about wanting you?"

Ben looked away. He hadn't anticipated that it was going to be so difficult to explain his concerns to the girl. He now realized that she viewed the world and her role in it through a completely different filter than he did. She seemed to process everything through a filter of _obedience_ and _duty_. Was it even possible for her to make a truly independent decision? Or was he being naïve and unfair in thinking that she should think as he did?

Taking her hands into his, he said, "Look. It's not that I'm not attracted to you. I am. And I like you a lot."

"You don't love me?"

"Fiela, we just met a few days ago. Give it time."

Again, the confused expression. It conveyed, "You should love me."

Ben said, "Give it a week, okay? Let's just sleep in different rooms for a week, and while we're doing that, I want you to think about what you truly want. Imagine that you met me on the street and didn't know who I was. Pretend I wasn't in a script. Would you still want to be with me?"

"Yes," she said instantly.

The man sighed. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm telling you..." He shook his head, disgusted with himself. "I'm _commanding_ you to spend a week thinking about what I just said. If you have any questions, ask me. You and Lilian will sleep in one room, and me in another. Just for a week."

Fiela fell back on her heels, frowning. "As you say, Mutu." She sniffled once. "I do not like it, though."

He closed his eyes and leaned back into the sofa. "I understand. Go to bed, Serretu."

He heard another sniffle and felt her lifting herself from the sofa.

Ben sat alone for a long time, thinking.

# September 26

> Anu granted him the totality of all Knowledge
> 
> He saw the Secret and discovered the Hidden
> 
> He told stories from before the Flood
> 
> He went on a distant journey
> 
> Pushed himself to exhaustion
> 
> But then was brought to peace.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The Epic of Gilgamesh (1300 B.C.)

# 54

The first of the reception's visitors arrived the following day. He was Wilfred Barnum, Esquire, and he had flown in on a customized EC 135 helicopter with three fetches and enough luggage to test the load capacity of the luxuriously upgraded aircraft. Lilian, seeing the helicopter, went to the helipad to greet him.

"Ah, Lilitu, it's good to see ye," he said in English with a Scottish brogue, holding open his arms so that she could embrace him. As tall as the average Nisirtu but a bit wider at the waist than most, the fifty-seven-year-old wore a gray three-piece suit and a black silk bow tie. Atop his head was a lush if unkempt mass of red hair that was matched by an equally lush and unkempt red beard.

"It's so good to see you, Willie," the woman yelled over the whine of the blades as they slowed to a stop. "It's been years!"

_"Ay, fower! A misst ye sae muckle!"_

Lilian released him and said in Agati, "Four years? Time is a wicked creature."

Barnum replied in the same tongue, though the accent remained. "Yes, the older you get that faster it moves. I was pleased to receive your invitation, even if the announcement of the marriage threw me for a loop!"

She took one of his arms in hers and walked him toward Steepleguard. "It was my intent to throw _everyone_ for a loop. I had to do it quickly, you understand."

"Most assuredly. You've put the Seven on their heels, lass."

"You've reviewed the marriage contract?"

"Yes, and Ridley has done an excellent job, as I'd expect. Still, I would like to sit down with you and your husband and sister to sift through some of the finer points. I think there are some implications you should be made aware of."

Lilian's pace slowed. "Nothing that affects the legitimacy of the union, I hope."

"Nothing like that, dear. Your marriage contract is ironclad. But we do have an item to discuss which is of paramount importance."

"Oh." Troubled, Lilian patted the man's hand. "Would an hour be adequate for you to recuperate from your trip?"

"One hour and some whiskey, yes."

"Then you shall have both." She twisted her body and motioned for Mr. Fetch, who was trailing them, to catch up. She said, "Mr. Fetch, please see Mr. Barnum to his suite and ensure he is provided a bottle of Glenfiddich."

Mr. Fetch said, "We have a bottle of the 1937. Would that be satisfactory, sir?"

The attorney laughed merrily. "It'll do in a pinch, lad."

# 55

The four lords of the Peth met again in the abandoned church in Denver.

Moros beat a fist lightly against the surface of the table at which the four sat. "Enough banter, gentlemen. Time is short." He looked at Disparthian. "Let us start with you, Lord. Do you have any issues I should be made aware of?"

The Frenchman sprayed blue smoke into the air. "Me? Absolutely not. The markets are near collapse. I can make it happen anytime. The viruses are active and the _autobots_ ready to be triggered. Our market makers are blindly following the script devised for them, believing they will become rich if they execute their trades exactly as directed. I have ten thousand Ardoon ready to buy or dump billions of shares as soon as I pull the trigger. The disaster that follows will be swift and epic. It will make the 1929 crash look like a soft landing."

"And the internet? The media?" asked Belusmar, for these were also within Disparthian's domain.

"They are congested with contradictory 'reliable source' information. Social media addicts clamor endlessly about wars and rumors of wars. Cage's disease," he gave a respectful nod to Moros, "can now allegedly be contracted from municipal water supplies. Many physicians and websites are said to have confirmed this. There are also 'leaked' emails and texts from the Center of Disease Control that suggest Cage's corpses have been reanimating."

Nizrok cackled loudly. "Zombies? Ha! Ha! Diz, you have outdone yourself."

The other lord smiled. "No, no, I watch too many movies, if we are honest. But I thought why not add some flavor, yes? I am sure there will be a few thousand believers in the graveyards tonight digging up bodies to chop off heads."

All the men laughed until at last Disparthian said, more seriously, "Our scripts are running on every newswire. The latest news releases include stories of a massive meteor headed toward earth, dangerously high solar flare activity, mysterious objects in the sky above major cities, construction of covert FEMA internment camps in the Midwestern states, possible coups in several nations, Chinese submarines off the west coast, the transfer of Russian troops and equipment to Eastern Europe...well, I could go on all evening.

"Suffice to say, the internet has served its purpose well. There is much gnashing of the teeth. No two survivors of the days that follow will be able to agree on exactly what went wrong, and no one will trust anyone, facilitating an enduring period of anarchy. Fertile grounds for the Nisirtu renaissance."

"But there are some who are trying to counter your scripts, are there not?" asked Nizrok.

The Frenchman nodded. "Unavoidably, there are a few sensible Ardoon who have pleaded for the public to remain calm, but we have cast them as 'deniers' or as participants of a conspiracy to keep the 'sheeple' in blinders. The more effective spokespersons are scripted to suffer accidental deaths, which merely fuels the conspiracy fires." He waved his cigarette in the air, making circles of smoke. "In a few days, the coup de grace. The _blackness_."

"Are the Ardoon being herded as the Families require?" asked Moros.

"But of course," said Disparthian. "Before the lights go out, all the major internet news sites and the larger social media sites will report nuclear detonations or biological attacks in the required locations. There will be no time for the Ardoon to verify anything before the collapse occurs. Word will spread by word of mouth, afterward. That will ensure that the correct regions are vacated while other regions are avoided. The Ardoon herds will go where we have scripted them to go. It is a simple matter."

Belusmar said, "I envy you, Diz. Your assignment allows for creativity. Mine is too simple, too mundane."

"I assume that means you have encountered no problems, then," said Moros, looking at the man with the pipe.

"None," confirmed the elderly man. "Limited nuclear strikes and EMP detonations will occur at the times specified by the scripts. The only challenge will be ensuring events happen in sequence. For that reason, I may need to run some one-degree scripts on the final day. If events were to happen out of sequence, there would be too many survivors, or worse, we might have a contamination issue."

Moros said, "I trust you to do what is necessary. The Families will not be happy if we hit our target mortality rate but half the earth is uninhabitable."

"Thank you, Lord. In any event, most of the nuclear forces will be disabled before they can launch missiles. We only need a few launches to achieve our purpose."

"What of the conventional forces and the weapons stockpiles?"

"The stockpiles we will leave intact for our own use. The conventional forces are already decimated by Cage's. The U.S., Chinese, European and Russian militaries are at around thirty percent strength and dropping. One of Diz's computer viruses, or the EMP strikes, will put most of the ships and subs out of commission.

"Any surviving vessels will be alone in the wild without the ability to contact their commands or other vessels and will be clueless as to what is happening, aside from the misinformation Diz has scripted. The crews will also be unable to replenish fuel, food, or water. At some point, Cage's will kill most of the survivors and the ships and subs will have to be abandoned."

"The satellites?"

"They'll be taken out by a combination of kinetic weapons, the EMP blasts, and the viruses. The U.S. and Europeans are scripted to knock out the Chinese and Russian satellites and vice versa. Some will be left in orbit, but the viruses at the ground stations are already in place and will make them unusable until the grid goes offline. At that point, it won't matter."

"Well done," said Moros, who turned to Nizrok. "And you?"

Nizrok toyed with an eyebrow and said, "The grain blight is causing some localized famine this year, but the harvests next year will be the best measure of my success. The products my fetches have been developing for the larger agricultural conglomerates are designed to stunt crop growth at the most inopportune time for farmers, several months into the growing season. The wheat, corn, soybean, and rice harvests will be abysmal. The genetically modified crops they've been selling are tailored to cross-contaminate surrounding non-GMO crops."

He held his hands in front of him, palms up. "Not that it matters so much the first year, since the farmers will be without functional farm machinery or vehicles to deliver whatever they eke out of the ground. But in subsequent years even the use of oxen will be futile. The famine will be epic. As our ancestors once lamented, _the canals are rich with salt._ "

Looking at Moros, Nizrok said, "It is unnecessary for you to brief _us,_ Lord. Your achievements are already well documented. But perhaps you would indulge us anyway?"

Moros nodded. "Cage's disease has been a remarkable success. It is spreading at an exponential rate, and no Ardoon scientists have been able to determine what it is because of its stealth design and the decoy variants we've released. It is airborne, as you now, and my sycophants have introduced it to the world's most populous cities and busiest airports.

"It is, of course, designed to bypass Nisirtu. We have a unique genetic identify due to our managed breeding program. Ultimately, it should reduce the world's population to under two hundred million."

"So, two, maybe three days until it all comes together?" asked Belusmar.

"Until the start, anyway," agreed Disparthian. "The embers will continue to glow after the fire has been extinguished. But inevitably, they will go dark."

"Exciting times," beamed Nizrok.

But Belusmar grunted unhappily.

"What is it, old man?" asked Disparthian.

Belusmar put his hands together under his chin as if in prayer. "I would like to know whether any of you have been given any guidance as to your roles after the thinning of the Ardoon?"

The others exchanged uncomfortable glances.

Moros finally said, "Why do you ask?"

"We - the court of the Second Kingdom - had received assurances that a roadmap would be in place by now. That is to say, our queen led the Second Peth legion to believe that there is a plan for what will happen after the cataclysm. Yet, with only days left, we have been told nothing of it."

"That does not mean there is no plan," challenged Disparthian.

"True. Yet each day our queen appears increasingly agitated, as if a suitor has failed to appear as promised. For that reason and others, we... _wonder._ "

"Has she directed you to stop your operations?" Moros asked circumspectly, spinning a biology textbook on the table.

"No, never, and at this point, the scripts are practically running themselves. The scenarios are almost a decade old, and too many genies have escaped too many bottles. How, for example, could you undo Cage's? How can you, in days, replant all the crops in the world? These things cannot be undone. No, we are committed."

"Why not ask your scribes for information if you are so concerned?"

"The scribes have been restricted from talking to anyone but the queen. Why? I do not know, but I see them too often in the corridors of the royal abode. Far too often. They seem confused and without purpose. Why are they not writing scripts? The world after the collapse will be a chaotic place, ripe for the rebirth of the Nisirtu, but they seem as lost as me. I haven't a clue what the role of the Second Peth will be."

"Why should you?" scowled Nizrok. "We are Peth-Allati! We are neither scribes nor royalty. The Families have no duty to share their plans with us, and you should not be putting your nose into their affairs. If my king directs the Fourth Peth to march into the Underworld, we will, and we will not ask why!"

Looking frustrated, Belusmar downed the glass of water in front of him and said, "The Underworld is likely where we will end up without a map."

Disparthian scratched his chin. "Perhaps you subscribe to the theories of the mad king, Sargon? Do you think, Belusmar, that the Sillum is scheming to usurp the Nisirtu? Shall you rally the Houses and march on Bolivia?"

"I never said that," the other man grumbled. "You'd be well-advised not to mock me."

"Disparthian, you forget yourself," said Moros. "Belusmar is concerned for the future of his House, as well he should be. We are each bound to protect our Families and our citizens."

Turning toward Belusmar, he said, "But Lord, you ask questions that should not be asked. Even if there were no plan, the Nisirtu will continue to rule the surviving Ardoon. We did in the day of the Madihee, when we had only horses and spears. Unlike the Ardoon, we have a network, and purpose, and understanding. We have stockpiles of equipment, food, materials, and weapons. While the Ardoon are groveling for scraps and killing one another in the ruins, we will be building empires."

"Unless," mused Disparthian, concealing a grin beneath one hand, "the Sillum beats us to it."

# 56

Dozens of additional guests began to arrive by air and land.

Ben, playing the role of host, was dressed in brown tweed pants, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and brown loafers.

He was initially amazed that such ostensibly powerful men and women could drop everything they were doing to respond to Ridley's invitation, especially given the short notice, but then recognized that it was their power that allowed them to do so. They ruled their own lives and answered to no one except their kings and queens, who, from what he could tell, required nothing but their subjects' loyalty.

The guests were an exceptional lot, physically. The Nisirtu men were generally tall and chiseled, the women were slim and gorgeous, and the children were adorable and seemingly wise beyond their years. Most newcomers arrived dressed in leisurewear that could only be purchased from specialty stores. Two-hundred-dollar polo shirts and five-hundred-dollar khakis. Sneakers, boat shoes, and sunglasses that topped a thousand dollars each.

By midday, the parking lot held a great variety of luxury and sports cars, many of a make Ben had never seen before. He stood outside the doors to the Great Hall, admiring them and contemplating a closer inspection. He wasn't a gear-head, but he didn't need to be to appreciate the mechanical marvels that were collecting in his new front yard.

"There you are," came a voice from behind him. He turned and saw Lilian and Fiela striding toward him, hand in hand. Lilian wore a white sleeveless dress that dropped to mid-thigh, a gold chain around her waist. Fiela wore a similar dress sewn from a creamier color of cloth.

"Just enjoying the view," he said, turning back toward the cars. Lilian appeared to his right and Fiela to his left, though the Peth had stopped a half step behind him.

Lilian said, "A friend of the family, Willie Barnum, would like to meet with us in about an hour. He's an attorney who has reviewed the marriage contract and wants to make sure all the T's are crossed. We'll meet in Ridley's study, later. The three of us and Willie."

"Okay. _Fiela!_ " yelled Ben over his shoulder, "you're giving me the creeps standing back there. Did you forget your sunglasses?" He knew the girl was extremely sensitive to light, but the skies were overcast.

"No, Mutu," she said, taking hold of his arm but not moving.

"What, then?"

Lilian made a clucking sound with her tongue. "Don't be silly, Sister. Stand next to your husband." To Ben: "It's customary for the serretu to stand a little toward the rear if the asatu is present. I doubt you care about such things."

"You're right," he replied. "That's ridiculous. I'm officially nixing that custom by whatever authority that document I didn't read gives me."

"Done," said Lilian decisively, and motioned Fiela to move up with a wave of her hand.

"Thank you, Mutu," the Peth said, kissing him on the shoulder when she was beside him.

He looked at her, thinking to kiss her back, and saw something curious. In the center of both her cheeks there had been drawn, in ink, small, intricate circles, no more than a quarter of an inch in diameter each. There appeared to be tiny cuneiform letters inside the circles. Because the ink was light pink, the rings were almost invisible.

"What's that?" he asked, touching one of Fiela's cheeks. The marks looked vaguely familiar.

The girl blushed, causing the circles to vanish. " _Vedoo_ marks."

"What?"

Lilian said, "They tell the world that Fiela is your new serretu. _Legal_ serretu, that is."

"Oh?" He frowned. "Don't tell me you have to draw those on her every morning."

Fiela's face turned even redder. "I hope not."

"I don't understand," he said.

"It is merely a Nisirtu custom," said Lilian innocently. "Rather like a bride wearing a white dress. That is all."

"Oh." Not understanding, nor caring, he asked, "Are all the guests arriving today?"

"Most," said Lilian. "The rest will arrive tomorrow. I must introduce you to many of them."

"Fine." Waving at someone he didn't know, he said, "Since we're at least pretending to be honest with one another, tell me how it is that Ridley just happens to have so many clothes and shoes that fit me."

Lilian waved, also. Not turning her head, she said to him, "A few weeks ago, I flew a man with your exact dimensions to Savile Row to serve as your surrogate. Not that it was easy to find a man with such broad shoulders. I had to make inquiries with half the modeling agencies in the country. It took weeks."

"I see." He didn't ask the woman how she had obtained his measurements. She was Nisirtu. That would not have have been a challenge. "It would be more convenient if the clothes were just moved to-"

"Done," said Lilian. "All your clothes are now in your dressing room. I had them moved earlier this morning."

"I have a dressing room?"

"It's that little room adjacent to the suite."

"Little? I thought that was another bedroom."

Lilian chuckled. "As if."

"Where are yours and Fiela's clothes, then?"

"In the five rooms opposite our suite."

Ben stopped waving and turned toward her. "Five rooms? You need five rooms for your clothes?"

Lilian huffed. "Ben, please remember we are talking about clothes for _two_ people, in addition to all our shoes, purses, and jewelry. We were lucky to fit it all in!"

The man shook his head and watched as a glimmering red Aston Martin Valkyrie turned the corner at the far end of the driveway and headed toward them.

"Explain something else to me," he said. "I get that everyone in the Nisirtu is wealthy and powerful. But how is it that everyone is either handsome or beautiful?"

"Good breeding. We are very selective in our choice of mates."

"You're not talking about eugenics, again, are you? I thought that was reserved for the Peth. Are all Nisirtu are 'bred?'"

"Not really."

"Not _really? "_

"Our program is voluntary and we aim only to enhance positive traits. We are too wise to use race, religion, or other unrelated attributes in mapping our genetic futures. Such foolish polices are," she said, with irony, " _exclusive_ to the Ardoon."

Before Ben could explore the topic further, a young couple walked up to them. Both were Hollywood-perfect. He bore a marked resemblance to one of those carefree polo players shown in cologne advertisements in gentlemen's fashion magazines, and she looked like the head of an Ivy League sorority that catered exclusively to homecoming queens. It surprised Ben they weren't both carrying tennis racquets and sipping champagne.

_" Annasa,"_ said the man, showing his perfect white teeth, and Lilian held out her hand so that he could brush her knuckles with his lips. The young woman next to him repeated the ritual.

Lilian said, "You are kind, but I am not a queen."

"But you will be," said the woman. "Soon, we hope."

"It is time that the world was returned to its proper order, with a Sargon on the throne," said the man, eyeing Ben. _" Anax?"_

Ben held out his hand. "Ben."

"Rightful son of Sargon," said Lilian with gravity.

"Chosen successor of the Great Sage," added Fiela.

The younger man took Ben's hand and shook it enthusiastically. "You are an inspiration, sir. Son of Sargon and chosen of the Great Sage. I have made it a point to read all of your books, and I am amazed at your intellectual prowess, truly. I am a student of ancient civilizations."

Ben was surprised. "Really? Any specific region or period?"

"The Pacific and Southeast Asia are what interest me most. I am preparing a paper on _Lemuria_."

"Lemuria." Ben nodded his approval. "You have an interest in mythos, then. I'd be interested in reading the finished product. I once authored an article on _Mu_. It was a pop piece for a travel magazine, but I'd be happy to share my notes with you. I didn't catch your name?"

"Augustus," the man said. "Lilian knows my family. Oh," he said, stepping back. "I'm sorry, this is Theda, my wife."

"Anax," said the woman, gently twisting Ben's outstretched hand and kissing the signet ring on his finger. She raised two hypnotic blue eyes to meet his as her lips pushed against the cuneiform inscriptions. Ben tried to hide his embarrassment as Fiela's grip on his arm tightened.

She looked a Lilian. "Your neck is bruised, Annasa."

Ben froze. Lilian's neck was bruised? He hadn't noticed that. Then again, he hadn't put on his reading glasses and conducted a thorough inspection. It had never occurred to him to do so. But how could it _not_ be bruised?

Idiot!

His pulse quickened. This did not look good.

Lilian said, "Yes. That was Fiela's doing. She gets a little carried away in the heat of the moment."

"Oh," said the woman named Theda, lifting her eyebrows and giving Fiela a playful look.

Fiela smiled. "I forgot my own strength," she said. "But it ended well, didn't it, Sister?"

"Indeed," replied Lilian with a chuckle.

The man named Augustus, sensing and misinterpreting Ben's unease, cleared his throat and said, "Anax , Theda is a marine archaeologist."

Ben cleared his own throat and managed a weak nod. "Ah, well...a marine archaeologist and a student of Lemuria? You two were destined to be together."

Feeling light-headed, he said, "It was a pleasure meeting you both, but I've got some matters to attend to."

"Of course," the visitors said almost in unison, and after a few parting pleasantries the couple continued past him to the Great Hall.

"Sister," said Lilian to Fiela, "Why did you not wear a scarf or hide the brushes with makeup?"

The other woman guffawed. "A scarf? I'd sooner smear dog shit on my face. They are quite out of style, Fiela. Besides, I rather like the bruises. It doesn't matter whether the guests think they came from you or Ben. Nisirtu love power, and they will admire whomever they think gave me the bruises, whether you, in lust, or Ben, in anger. Do you not see that?"

Fiela shook her head. Ben did the same.

Lilian sighed. "You two are really out of your element." She looked at Fiela. "I'll stay here and greet our visitors. Why don't you escort our husband to the sanctuary of his study?"

"Very well. We can go to the bedroom," the girl said, tugging at Ben's arm. "Perhaps you would like to nap? _In the bedroom?_ "

"A nap?" exclaimed Ben. "What am I, your grandfather?"

"Oh, Mutu," lamented Fiela as she pulled him away from the door. "Fine, let's go to your study and stare at your stupid tablets."

# 57

"Uncle gave us a sound system!" Fiela said excitedly. She had been slowly circling the study with her hands behind her back while Ben tried to reconstruct on paper some lines he saw on _Tablet 3_.

"Huh?" he said, holding a magnifying glass to the inscriptions.

Fiela was standing in front of a cabinet of audio equipment playing with the buttons. Eventually, she found the right combination and invisible speakers throughout the room began to pump out music.

"Oh, this is so great!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me you had this?"

Ben sighed and looked up. "I didn't know I had it. It's Ridley's."

"It's yours now, Mutu. Do you like music?"

"Some," he said, returning his gaze to the tablet.

The girl turned up the music slowly, watching him to see how far she could push it. It didn't take long for her to find the 'scowl' threshold, at which point she stopped playing with the dials and began to sway left and right, her arms above her. "Do you like to dance?"

"Nope."

"I love to dance," the Peth said. "No matter where I was fighting, I always found a place to dance."

"Mm-hmm."

"Do you like this kind of music?"

"I don't know what that kind of music is," he replied.

"You know, dubstep, electronic, that kind of thing?"

"I'm a linguist, and I still don't know what you're talking about. I don't suppose you like Robert Johnson?"

The girl dropped her hands to her sides. "Mutu! You're _not_ ancient. You're only like thirty years old. How can you be so behind the times?"

Ben placed his hands on his desk and looked up. "It's my job to be behind the times. A few millennia, normally. Anyway, you're one to talk, _Miss Sumeria_."

The girl's eyes lit up. "I know how to dance the veils! You'd like that, I bet. It's really, really old. I don't have the veils with me, though."

"Just as well. I don't have anyone available to behead."

"Ha!" laughed the girl. "Now you're thinking of your _other_ wife."

Fiela began to dance again, her hands above her, her hips moving slowly left and right, up and down, as she worked her way around the room.

While still dancing, she said, "Once, when I was in Prague, I got involved in this running skirmish with some rebels that lasted like three hours. At first, we were chasing them, then they were chasing us, and then it was just them chasing me, but they were tired by then, and I never get tired, so I got behind them and finished it, and then I went dancing. It was this little place with a name I don't remember, but I was covered in blood, and you know what? They didn't even care."

Placing the magnifying glass down and leaning back, the researcher said, "Do you always dance after a fight?"

"Uh-huh," she said as she danced towards him. "It's a perk of being a night fighter. There's always a bar or club open when you're done. Dancing helps, you know, get rid of the tension."

Her eyes seemed to lose focus. "I remember that night I had to kill this other girl. She was my age, and she kept begging me to let her go but, you know...I couldn't." The girl frowned and shook her head. "Anyway, the music was great that night. I love music, Mutu. It makes the whole world _disappear._ "

The man wanted to look away, to show Fiela that he was uninterested in this kind of thing. Dancing? He hadn't danced since high school and had no plans to start now.

Fiela didn't seem to care that he failed to join her. She seemed to take a great deal of satisfaction in dancing _for_ him, and he found himself unable to stop watching. It was hypnotizing, the way she rolled her hands up and down, left and right, the motions effortless, smooth and perfect.

She moved closer and closer to him, her violet eyes set on his, as she mouthed the words to the song to which she was dancing. Lifting her skirt a few inches, she pushed her long hair to the top of her head and began to corkscrew her body up and down, from floor to ceiling, smiling at the man as she slowly spun on her bare feet. _Did the girl ever wear shoes?_ But this was a fleeting thought, as she pivoted to face him again and regained the eye-lock she coveted.

The tempo of the song hinted to Ben that whatever the song was, it was close to ending. He found himself oddly disappointed. What had started as another of the girl's annoyances had become something much better. He wasn't sure exactly what, but it was somehow even better than staring at the slab of rock on his desk.

Fiela knew the song was over, too. In a stunning display of her strength and flexibility, she fell forward with one hand outstretched and used an arm to support her body. She went vertical, her feet above her. She supported her weight with just a thumb and index finger, yet didn't sway. It was as if someone above was holding on to her legs.

As the final notes of the song registered, she pushed forward and somersaulted directly into Ben's lap, her knees coming gently to rest on either side of his legs. The landing was perfect, as if wires had eased her down.

She pulled his hands under her dress. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. "Do you wish me shamed in front of our guests? Do you want them to think I am undesirable?"

Grinding slowly against him, she whispered, "When they see the _Vedoo_ they will know I am untouched."

The man was about to say he didn't understand - but then he did. "Wait, that's what those marks mean?"

Fiela let her hands wander, saying, "They will fantasize about spinning me around and doing to me what you will not. Is _that_ what you want, Mutu?"

"No," he said, still trying to process the implications of what Lilian had done.

_"Then save me,"_ the girl whispered. She parted her lips and moved her face toward the man's.

There was a knock at the door.

"No!" she cried out. "Not now!" She buried her face in Ben's shoulder and groaned.

A head popped into the room. It was Mr. Fetch.

"Sorry, sir...er..."

"What?" asked Ben, his throat tight.

"Miss Lilian is calling for you, sir. She says the attorney is ready for you and Miss Fiela."

Without warning, Fiela spun around and leaned forward on Ben's desk, craning her neck toward the interloper. To Ben's shock, she _hissed_ at the man. The motion was so violent and the sound so alien and laden with menace that the servant stumbled backward in horror.

"I'm sorry, Miss Fiela, but Miss Lilian said-"

"You did the right thing," said Ben, finding his voice. "Thank you, Mr. Fetch."

Shaken, Mr. Fetch rushed back down the hall.

"Serretu," said Ben. "Calm down."

Fiela, her face pink, continued to stare at the door.

"Fiela!"

"What?" she yelled angrily, finally turning to face him. Catching herself, she softened and said, "I'm sorry, Mutu. What did you say?"

"Calm yourself. You will not hurt Mr. Fetch. Do you understand?"

She nodded and buried her face in his shoulder again. "As you say. But, I was so close. I could feel it."

He thought maybe he was, but what he had just witnessed had rattled him to the core. For the briefest moment, Fiela seemed to have become something other than human.

God, she might have killed the man if I hadn't been here, he thought.

"Yes," he said soothingly, running his fingers through her hair. When her breathing had returned to normal, he said, "Let's go."

# 58

The two went to Ridley's study, where Lilian and Wilfred Barnum were waiting. The two men shook hands and swapped a few niceties before everyone sat down and got to business.

"I wanted to discuss with the three of you the implications of this marriage," opened the attorney. "The circumstances are rather unusual, and I'm not sure you fully appreciate them."

Lilian said, "We understood them well enough to produce a dowry."

Barnum nodded. "Ay, and I applaud your ingenuity. No one saw that coming. But Lilian, there are still other implications you must be mindful of now that you have crossed the Rubicon."

Ben said, "Such as?"

The man rested his chin on his right palm. "King Sargon, Lilian's father, is presumed deceased. He left behind no legitimate heirs. Thus, every right or authority he would have bequeathed to a legitimate child has been in a state of suspension. It was fortunate that Ridley convinced the victorious Houses to allow Lilian to live. However, as soon as you put the king's ring on your finger and married his daughter, you became his true - and legitimate - son. You are as much his son as if the queen herself had borne you."

Ben shrugged. "I'm honored, I guess. But that doesn't mean much, does it?"

"It means you are a prince!" said Fiela pointedly.

"Ah. I'm a prince. Well, that's something," said Ben. He had a sudden vision of himself in silk tights wearing a cap with a feather stuck in it. It was not a pretty picture.

The attorney said, "It also means that King Sargon's authorities now fall out of suspension to you. A decades-old void has been filled. The ring is like a last will and testament. A will remains in effect long after the author passes away. It is called the 'authority of the dead hand.' The authorities vested in that ring are equally valid."

"Yes, but Lilian and I discussed this. Aside from the right to approve my marriage, the ring is powerless. Any other rights that King Sargon could have bequeathed to a real son or daughter were lost when he was overthrown. There is someone else in charge of the Fifth Kingdom, and that person now has those rights. Which is a good thing, since my resume is a bit weak in the 'ruling a kingdom' department."

Barnum just managed a smile. It was fleeting.

"What?" asked Ben.

The attorney meditated on his next words before saying, "Has Lilian not told you that the current king, King Arkeri, has neither offspring nor living wife? He has also lost control of his mental faculties, just as Lilian's father did, though his House has been trying to conceal that truth. He claims his dead wife haunts him. His kingdom is largely run by his scribes, and not very well. I have heard from reputable sources that he has no will or similar device, and given his state of mind, anything he might put on paper would be very dubious in the eyes of the citizenry. Neither will his deteriorated physical state allow for prodigy."

"Okay," Ben said, drawing the word out, which was the same as saying, "Get to the point."

Lilian spoke. "That means if King Arkeri should die, you, Mutu, are the only legal living heir. The Fifth Kingdom will be yours. You would not be a prince. You would be a king."

"Excellent," said Ben, not caring. A deal was a deal and he'd decided to play his part. His life might depend on it.

"There is more. This is in regard to Lilian's new status."

Lilian turned from Ben to Barnum. "Is there an issue?"

"Not an issue, exactly."

"What?" she asked.

"Divorce is highly undesirable, lass."

"Why?" she asked too quickly. Everyone in the room looked at her.

"I mean," she added apologetically, touching Ben's arm, "not that I would ever wish to divorce my husband."

The attorney's eyes flashed from Lilian to Ben and back again. "It's complicated. The terms Scriptus Ridley negotiated for your parole are only valid so long as you remain unwed. The enemies of your father were determined that you be the end of his bloodline."

"Yes," said Lilian. "I know that. But I have married the rightful heir of my father and thus remain Nisirtu."

"Correct," said Barnum. "However..."

Lilian narrowed her eyes. "Go on."

Tapping a pen on his knee, the lawyer said, "Should you ever leave the sanctuary of the marriage, you would be...well, in marrying Ben you have already forfeited the protections offered by Scriptus Ridley's settlement. Thus, you would be immediately _marked._ "

"Marked?" Fiela exclaimed, looking at Lilian, whose eyes were wide.

It took a moment for Lilian to find her voice. "I do not understand. I am either married and protected by my status as the spouse to a _de facto_ regent or unmarried and protected by Ridley's settlement."

Barnum shook his head. "No, Lilian. When you wed Ben, you _voluntarily_ gave up the protections that Ridley negotiated for you. They cannot be restored."

The man turned to Ben. "You must understand that if Lilian were ever to leave the marriage, of her volition or by command, the mark placed on her by the Families upon King Sargon's ouster would be reinstated. The same is true if you were to die. She cannot remain Nisirtu unless you are both king and, of course, a _living_ king."

"Okay..." replied Ben, not understanding the solemnity of the attorney, nor the grave faces all around him. "That would be unfortunate. Lilian certainly has a passion for the society."

Barnum looked at Lilian. "Does he not understand what that means?"

"I think I do," said Ben, answering for her. "Lilian would lose all the rights and privileges that come with being a member of a very exclusive group of wealthy and powerful people. I do understand the gravity of that for someone like Lilian, who is obviously accustomed to this lifestyle."

He turned to the woman. "But Lilian, even if that were to happen, I think you'd be surprised how pleasant the Ardoon world can be. It wouldn't be the end of the world. Life _would_ go on."

Lilian's only response was to slowly shake her head.

# 59

At dinner that evening, Lilian took part in every conversation, contributing an opinion here and an idea there, agreeing with her guests on some topics and politely disagreeing with them on others. She called for the fetches to refill wine glasses and to bring coffee and tea. She did everything she could to conceal the fact that Barnum's revelations as to her legal status had shaken her world.

The fettered princess had a plan in place that would gain her a throne, and it had seemed to be working. Its continued success, however, depended on her correctly assessing her environment and being aware of all the pertinent facts, however minor. A few hours ago, a fact that was in no way minor had blindsided her. If Ben died or divorced her, she would not only lose her throne; she would be cast out of the Nisirtu.

Put more plainly, she would die, at her own hands or the hands of others.

The dichotomy was extreme. She could rule with Ben at her side, always, or she could pass to the underworld. Worse, it would be the underworld of the slaves, not the Nisirtu. It would be a special kind of hell for someone like her. She was confident the Ardoon dead would torture her soul for eternity.

The evening before, she'd sworn not to have Ben killed. That was a problem in itself. Now she had to protect him from others, also. There were many Nisirtu who, having no grudge against Ben, would still kill him so that they could plunge a dagger into Lilian's heart.

Yet it was not the external threat that concerned her most. It was, instead, the threat from _within_. To regain and keep a throne as queen, she needed the support of the nobility within her House. She also needed the support of the scribes, the Peth-Allati, and to some extent, the citizenry. If Ben were to die or divorce her, the fact that she was the biological daughter of a true Nisirtu king would not deter others _within_ her House who were hungry for her throne from enforcing the mark.

She pondered this throughout the meal, Ben to her left and Fiela to his. The only silver lining to her predicament was that Ben, having come from the ranks of the Ardoon, was not of royal lineage. Had Lilian married a Nisirtu noble, which is what she had requested Ridley to script, the noble's family would have inevitably schemed against her and sought to replace Lilian with a queen of their choosing. The family might have even overthrown their own flesh and blood if the king failed to comply with their constant demands for royal positions, rights, and authorities.

The fact that Ben was from the ranks of the Ardoon and had no living relatives diminished the possibility that he would be assassinated. That, in turn, reduced the probability that Lilian would be marked. Ridley had, in this way, provided her a better script than she had requested.

Lilian now also needed Ben to be happy. He'd proven the evening before that he was a force to be reckoned with when crossed. He was not going to be the passive instrument she'd hoped for. If he was unhappy with his role or Lilian's actions, there was no telling what he would do.

She realized that while she could to please him in superfluous ways, there was no love between them and probably never would be. This was unfortunate because love was a powerful tool. If he loved her, he'd give her much greater discretion to do what she thought right. He would forgive her more quickly when she did something of which he disapproved. He would give her powers that only a king can bestow.

Still, not all hope was lost. Fiela, her sister, _did_ love Ben, or imagined she did. There was no doubt about it. She considered Ben a kindred spirit. Both had fought in wars, and both struggled with the psychological side effects, to include nightmares. Equally important, unlike Lilian or Ben, Fiela treated the three's marriage as genuine. Fiela believed in it.

Did the man love Fiela? Perhaps. He was, at least, enamored with her. Unfortunately, the two had yet to engage in a sexual relationship, which was absurd. Fiela was beautiful, and Ben was handsome. They were joined together by Nisirtu law. Yet Ben had elected to sleep apart from both of Fiela and Lilian because of his ridiculous Ardoon ethics.

Another issue: Fiela was, now that Ben was her husband, more beholden to him than to her. Ben had tested that loyalty and Fiela had proven herself by nearly strangling her own sister at his command. It was clear that Fiela would do anything for him.

Lilian thought it would be prudent to remind Fiela that she was third in line, not second, and that, absent Ben's intervention, the girl was still compelled to serve her, just as a serretu must always serve an asatu. She would need to be reminded of her proper place.

# September 27

> Her band was shattered, her troupe broken up; And the gods, her helpers who marched at her side,
> 
> Trembling with terror, turned their backs about, In order to save and preserve their lives. Tightly encircled, they could not escape.
> 
> He made them captives and he smashed their weapons. Thrown into the net, they found themselves ensnared;
> 
> Placed in cells, they were filled with wailing;Bearing his wrath, they were held imprisoned.
> 
> * * *
> 
> The Enuma Elish (1100 B.C.)

# 60

Ben showered, shaved, and put on some decent clothes. By the time he returned downstairs to look for Ridley, a remarkably decadent champagne brunch had been organized in the Great Hall. Fetches had placed tables between the massive columns and on each were silver and chrome dishes. He examined the cards atop the silver holders that described the dishes: _Cinnamon Oranges, Grillades, Strawberries and Chantilly Cream,_ and _Spinach Frittata._

What? __ No _Eggs de Fiela?_

Ben had hoped to pass through the hall unimpeded but was almost immediately approached by two guests. The first was a man in his forties with a purple bow tie. With his dimpled chin, square jaw, and piercing eyes, he looked to Ben like a Hollywood leading man from the 1940s. His name was Romini, the earl of something or other, of the First Kingdom.

With him was a slightly older woman, Lady Del, of the Eighth Kingdom. Ben mentally dubbed her 'sexy First Lady,' without really knowing why. Unfortunately, she was also what her kind would call an 'interminable bore,' offering her unsolicited opinion on everything from fetches to investments. She had inquired as to the researcher's plans should he find himself on the throne and he'd politely said he hadn't given it much thought.

It was a response the woman disapproved of.

"How many serretu has Lilitu arranged for you?"

"Fiela is the only serretu," Ben answered cagily. That was Ridley's doing, of course.

"Only one?" asked Lady Del, making a 'tut-tut-tut' sound with her tongue. "It is unusual, having only the one serretu and to have her and your wife under the same roof with you. When the world quiets, you should consider a few others and spread them throughout your kingdom. It is the best way to ensure your line is not lost to a single calamity."

Ben pretended concern. "How many would you suggest?"

"Most noblemen have at least four. A king should have a dozen or more. That way," the woman said, "all of your eggs are not in one basket." She laughed, amused at her own wit.

"I see."

"Of course," she continued, "not all would be in the line of succession. To protect them, and yourself, you would secretly state in your will which among them would inherit and which would be returned to the citizenry. It is then in their best interest to ensure you remain alive, as their futures are quite uncertain otherwise. This arrangement also makes it extremely difficult for your enemies to select targets. They could spend months scripting the death of a serretu who is not even in the line of succession."

Romini huffed, "Better to get consorts. They are far less troublesome."

"But," said the woman, "they cannot inherit and so do not extend his line."

"Perhaps not his line but they'll extend his life! When was the last time a consort assassinated a king, eh? Three centuries ago! It is virtually a pastime for serretu and asatu!"

Ben did a double-take."Assassinated?"

The man laughed. "You are fortunate, Ben, that you had Scriptus Ridley on your team. He ensured Lilitu was kept in check by making her reign dependent upon your life - and happiness, of course."

"You know about that?"

Romini shrugged. "Everyone does, of course. News travels fast in our world."

Ben replied, "I see. But I don't think Ridley scripted that."

"Are you sure?" asked the woman, giving him a skeptical look.

"Well, I doubt he would have planned it that way..." Ben trailed off, noticing that the earl bore an expression identical to the woman's.

Ben re-evaluated his presumption. Hadn't Ridley agreed to write a script that kept the research alive and free from harm? Isn't that what Sargon's will had done, by making Lilian's reign dependent upon Ben's remaining alive and not divorcing her?

But that didn't make sense. King Sargon's will was decades old. Ben's deal with Ridley and Lilian had only been made a day ago. There's no way the two were connected.

_Right?_

He said, "The negotiations for Lilian's pardon occurred long ago. I was probably in elementary school then, so I was hardly on Ridley's 'team.' Any man could have been her husband."

"If you say so," mumbled Romini, taking a sip from his glass.

The woman said, "Speaking of which, I'd like to introduce my daughter to you." She stood on her toes and scanned the room. "I saw her a moment ago."

"Oh," said Ben, taking a step back, "I should really-"

"She's _sereti_ ," said Lady Del, stepping forward to fill the gap he had tried to create, "and just over thirty years old. She is an admirer of many of the Ardoon. The new generation, you see. Open-minded but not gauche. She's quite lovely."

Ben, wondering what a _sereti_ was, struggled for a response. He felt a hand slipping through the crook of his arm.

"That would be _Persipia,_ Lady Del?"

"Ah," said the woman with an almost imperceptible flash of disappointment. "Lilitu. It's so good to see you." The women exchanged kisses.

"My husband prefers that I be called Lilian. He prefers the Ardoon variation."

"As you wish," said the woman with an uneasy smile. " _Lilian_. The earl and I were discussing some trivial matters with Ben."

Lilian said, "I have just returned from a morning stroll. What of Persipia? Is she well?"

"She is here, even."

"Then you must introduce her to Ben."

"I would be glad to," the older woman said, as if the thought had never occurred to her.

Lilian leaned forward. "Do you think Persipia would favor us by agreeing to serve as consort to my husband?"

Ben's face went almost as white as Lady Del's.

"Ben," Romini interjected, "are there any cigars in this place?"

"Yes, in my study," said Ben. _God bless you._ "Follow me."

When the two men were gone, the women again faced each other and began speaking Agati.

"Consort," said Lady Del without inflection.

"It is a great opportunity," Lilian said. She looked around the room before leaning forward and whispering, "Perhaps this is something better discussed in private, Lady. I have established my music room upstairs. May I escort you there?"

The other woman's face paled. "Can we not talk here, but more quietly? Or perhaps outside?"

Lilian laughed. "Do not worry, Lady. It has been a long time since I had anyone killed, and I have no quarrel with you."

She held extended her hand.

# 61

Moros and Nizrok stood on the edge of the roof of one of Denver's tallest buildings, surveying the city below as the sun slowly rose in the east. A chilly wind whipped around them.

Moros bore a triumphant expression.

He said, "Thank you for coming on such short notice, Lord. I have good news."

"What is that?"

"The Seven have directed that Lilitu be stopped. Tonight, we assault Ridley's abode."

Nizrok was flummoxed. "Stopped, Lord Moros? From what?"

"From whatever she is planning."

Nizrok was baffled. "But surely you are wrong," he protested. "I have read today's scripts. There is no reference to such an attack."

"Nor would there be. This will be 'off the radar.'"

Nizrok held his arms out to his side. "Then, how shall the attack be orchestrated? How shall the Ardoon be manipulated without a script?"

"There will be no script and no Ardoon," said Moros. "This will be an internal action. That is why you are here, Lord Nizrok. How many Peth-Allati are at your command in this region?"

Wide-eyed, the other Peth said, "We cannot attack another member of the Seven!"

Moros pulled a large envelope with a wax seal from inside his black trench coat and handed it to the other man. "As of this morning, Lilitu is Maqtu, as are any who willingly associate with her. The Families have said so."

Nizrok took the envelop but did not open it. "Really? Why has Lilitu been designated as Maqtu?"

"That," said Moros,"I do not know. Nor do I car. It gives credence to my suspicion that the whore and her associates are planning something. I do not say that their plan would have worked - in truth, I cannot imagine what it is. Yet if the Families are aware of it and are concerned, it is a matter that must be dealt with immediately. Tonight."

Nizrok was troubled. "This is most unusual."

"These are unusual times," replied Moros solemnly. "How many troops do you have?"

"Here? Only my personal guard and commanders. Fifty-three. You?"

"Fifty-nine."

Nizrok frowned, not liking where this was going. His personal guard consisted of elite Peth, former shock troops, whom he had hand-selected for their loyalty. The senior Peth of each kingdom, which included not only him but also Moros, Disparthian, Belusmar, and three others, were allotted up to sixty such guards. Though well concealed, they were always near their master. These elite guards also protected the _praetors_ , the commanders of each Peth lord's legions. Five praetors orbited each lord, and each commanded a thousand Peth around the globe at their master's behest.

"Are you using Peth from any of the other kingdoms?"

Shaking his head, Moros said, "No. I can't chance word reaching Lilitu. The larger the operation, the greater the chance that might occur. In truth, I have doubts about Belusmar, who seemed _unenthusiastic_ when we last met. Disparthian is too insubordinate as of late, and there is no time to summon Peth from the other kingdoms. This mission will be carried out by you and me, old friend. But do not worry – you will not need to commit your praetors. The guards will suffice."

"But do you think it prudent for us to send our personal guards on a combat mission? The Maqtu might be crushed as a fighting force but many of their assassins still roam the streets. With the collapse approaching, they will be particularly zealous. You and I will be undefended. Besides, our guards are trained and equipped to protect us and defend our abodes - not to conduct assaults."

Moros shook his head. "Do not underestimate our protectors. They were in the field conducting combat missions for many years before they became our guards. Granted, they won't have the efficiency or coherency of a unit trained to conduct assaults, but consider our opponent! An old hotel full of academics and blue bloods. A hundred seasoned Peth are more than adequate for such a small operation, guards or not. Even with the bitch present," he added, referring, the other man knew, to Fiela.

"Wouldn't it be easier," asked Nizrok, unconvinced, "to simply plant a bomb or two and set them to detonate during the reception?"

"Yes, but the Families desire the capture of Lilitu and her followers."

"Capturing is far more difficult than killing."

"True, but keep in mind that we have a particularly docile and lethargic target group. They will be like sheep in a pen once they have gathered for the reception."

"What shall be done with them?"

"They are to be turned over to the Families for trial. Most will be executed while others, the politically useful ones, may be allowed to live. Deals will be made." The Peth sighed. "The politicians have spoken. Even Lilitu must be kept alive – for now. She is to be executed publicly, with much fanfare."

"What of Ridley and Lilian's husband?"

"They are to be killed on sight. The Families plan to remove the Ardoon from our history, so a public execution is counterproductive, and the Sage is too well-loved to execute, so must be _collateral damage_."

"I assume Fiela will be turned over with Lilitu?"

The other man smiled darkly. "No. Fiela is to be mine. She is my reward."

Nizrok understood that to mean that Fiela would be offered the choice of marrying Moros or being brutalized. Surely the man didn't think it would be so easy, though? The girl would die before allowing either to happen.

As off-handedly as possible, he said, "It goes without saying that we shall _both_ be present for the surrender of Lilitu."

Looking offended, Moros cupped his hands together and spread his palms. "Yes, my friend, we shall share that glory. You are to escort dignitaries of the other Houses to Steepleguard so that each of the seven kingdoms may share in the victory that marks the end of this epoch."

"And the start of the next," added Nizrok.

"Of course," said Moros. "That, too."

# 62

The space which Lilian had elected to make her music room had, decades ago, housed an indoor garden. The windows ran floor-to-ceiling on three sides of the room and a stained-glass skylight above bathed the room in natural light. There were Persian rugs of every variety placed about the room.

The room had been reinvented in the spirit of art nouveau from its ornate varnished furniture to its intricate, hand-painted floral wallpaper. On the walls were original works of art from Alphonse Mucha and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrc. These were softly illuminated by Tiffany lamps placed on tables designed and built by the most prestigious artisans of the era.

In the center of the room was a grand piano. A harp that seemed molded from gold rested next to one of the perimeter windows, a velvet upholstered stool next to it. There were also three music stands and several settees and chairs.

Lilian sat one of of the settees and asked Lady Del to sit at another, opposite her.

A female fetch was standing at attention nearby, and Lilian said to her, "Bring tea and biscuits. Also, send for my sister, with a command that she come here immediately."

The fetch bowed and hurried out the room.

Lady Del said, "You command your sister?"

"Why should I not? She is third to the throne and I am second. She is Peth an I am royalty."

Del looked skeptical. "I understand that, of course. It is only..."

"Yes?"

"Well, the rumor - and you know how I hate rumors-"

"Of course," said Lilian, knowing that, to the contrary, the woman was the most gossipy creature in existence.

"Yes. The rumor is that your husband has a...well, a special bond to her, and he is, or would be, king. So..." She raised her shoulders.

"Ah, I see. The Duke of the Ordunas has been busy. He and his faction have never supported my claim to my father's throne, and they are great fans of Fiela's heroics. Such things are to be expected, Lady. They do not worry me."

"In truth," replied the woman, "I am not sure why you invited the Ordunas to your reception. Is that not...dangerous?"

Lilian waved a dismissive hand. "Of course not. I invited them for the sake of my sister, of course. We come as a package. Whoever supports her must support me. It strengthens my position."

Del did not appear convinced. "For now, yes. But later..."

"I will not have a 'later' if I do not leverage Fiela's supporters to further my own claim. Oh, speak of the devil!"

Fiela rushed into the room. She was wearing a red dress that extended to her knees but was cut low. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

"Yes, Sister?" she asked, worry in her eyes. "Is there a problem?" She looked at Lady Del, whom she didn't recognize. "Hi."

Lady Del bowed. "Annasa."

Lilian said, "There is no problem. I simply wish to introduce you to an important supporter." She lowered her eyes to the floor. "Where are your shoes, Fiela?"

Fiela looked down. "I, um...I was about to put them on, but was told to hurry here."

"I told you never to appear barefoot during the reception, did I not?"

"No, Sister," the girl answered, head bowed. "You said I should not appear in public during the reception without shoes on. I would not disobey you. This is not public, is it?"

"You play games, Fiela. You are ingenious in finding ways not to do what I say by creatively interpreting my commands."

Lilian turned to Lady Del. "She is twenty-two, and nearly a queen yet runs about like Tom Sawyer. My apologies."

Del was unsure what to say and so said nothing. She did not want to take a side in the dispute. Both Lilian and Fiela were very dangerous women to cross.

Lilian said to Fiela, "I fear I have encouraged your behavior with leniency. You have evaded punishment for too long." She pointed at the floor in front of her. "Assume the position of a penitent. A thousand kisses will suffice."

Fiela's face turned pink. She darted her eyes toward Lady Del, who was conveniently looking in the other direction.

"Now?"

"Two thousand kisses," said Lilian sternly. "Do you have more questions?"

Fiela shook her head and began to step forward.

"No, no," said Lilian. "You will ruin your dress. Take it off."

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. She lowered the straps of the dress off her shoulders, then lowered the dress to her knees and stepped carefully out of it.

In a conversational tone, Lilian said to Lady Del, "My apologies, Lady. I don't permit her to wear undergarments. I may reconsider once she is penetrated by our husband, but until then, she must be ever-ready."

She said to Fiela, "Place your dress over the arm of the settee and begin," said Lilian.

Fiela, now naked, moved forward and carefully placed the dress where Lilian had indicated, then dropped to her knees. She leaned forward and removed Lilian's shoes, placing them carefully to the side.

Lilian said, "Count, but quietly. Lady Del and I have things to discuss."

Fiela nodded once and planted her first kiss. "One," she whispered.

Lilian said to Lady Del, "What were we talking about?" She pretended confusion, placing a finger on her chin. "It was something about the Ordunas, I think..."

She threw her hands up and smiled. "Oh, well. Silly me. I'm sure it wasn't important. Let us get to the matter I brought you here to discuss."

"As you say, Annasa."

"It is just...wait a moment." She held a finger in the air and lowered her head toward Fiela. "The tea will be here soon, Sister. I will give you a cup so that you may wet your lips from time to time. I do not wish to be cruel."

Lifting her head, she said to Lady Del, "As I was saying, things have been moving so very fast. Ben lacks a single consort. It is unacceptable, don't you think? He will at some point need someone from outside our home for companionship. Persipia is attractive and intelligent. A good sense of humor, too, or so I've been told. Much like her mother."

Lady Del looked like she'd spied a cockroach. "Yes, thank you, but...consort? As you know, she has spent her life training as sereti, learning the skills requisite to serving as asatu to a noble. Or, perhaps, senior serretu."

"I see," said Lilian. "Then I wish you good fortune in your hunt for a suitor. It may prove a challenge in the coming days."

"Why do you say that?"

"It is a rumor whispered to me by the Great Sage."

"I see." The other woman weighed this. "Persipia may agree to serve as the second serretu to a man of proper stature. She would have much to offer in that capacity. She knows all the right people and speaks several languages. She also has an incredible eye for fashion, which any noble's wife would appreciate."

"She has many wonderful qualities," acknowledged Lilian, "yet, she is thirty-one in a world of twenty-year-olds." Lilian shrugged. "It is a harsh reality, but there it is."

_" Consort,"_ the woman said again, as if by repeating the word it might become less repugnant. She eyed Fiela's bobbing head.

"To a king," said Lilian. "As you are aware, consorts may become serretu. In time."

Lady Del tugged absently at one ear. "It is perhaps a possibility."

"One wonders if it shall remain so," responded Lilian with less warmth. "Your daughter is exceptionally beautiful, but I am told she is weak-willed and requires constant supervision. It is no wonder that she is a decade short of forty years and has yet to find a suitable position."

The older woman deliberated on this for a moment before replying, "There is no assurance Ben will become a king, or remain one. If Persipia agreed to be consort this day, she could be killed tomorrow for treason by the other Houses."

"Or," countered Lilian, "if she rejects this offer, she may find herself forever alone. Precarious times, these, but everyone must choose a side. I do not require an answer this second, Lady Del. You must confer with your daughter. If she is not agreeable, I will not hold it against her, but neither shall I grant her a second opportunity."

"And if she were agreeable?"

"Send her to me. Oh, wait, here is the tea."

As the fetch approached, Lilian said to her, "Avert your eyes, Miss Fetch, or I shall pluck them out. Place the tray here and pour three cups. Give one to Lady Del, then leave."

The fetch, hands trembling, did as directed, and made a hurried exit. Lilian lowered a cup of tea to the floor and said, "Wet your tongue and lips. At a thousand kisses you may drink a little, but not before then."

Fiela nodded and leaned forward, placing her lips into the tea. Her hands remain planted on the floor. A second later, she returned to her task.

"One hundred and forty-two," she whispered, lifting her head and then lowering it again.

Lady Del, fidgeting, said, "Would your husband even accept my daughter as consort? He seems uncomfortable with our ways. How would you convince him?"

"I would tell him the truth, Lady. If he is not pleased to avail himself to Persipia then he need not do so."

"Then why should he take her as consort?"

"Because doing so would please me. I love my sister Fiela, here, as I love no other, but she lacks refinement and a proper education. She knows almost as little about the nobility as my husband. It would be pleasant to have a noblewoman with whom to exchange ideas as we rebuild the Ardoon. I would certainly seek her input on many things."

Lady Del ran a finger around the rim of her cup. "She would, in a sense, be an advisor, to you?"

"In a sense, yes, and I'm sure her presence would be beneficial to your family's fortunes. But," Lilian added, dropping her voice ever so slightly, "do not misunderstand me. She must still fulfill her role as consort."

The other woman gazed a Lilian for a moment, trying to read the hostess's thoughts and confirm her suspicions. Finally, the lady said, "But you said the king might not desire her."

Lilian gave her a distressed look, as if the lady had just said something very stupid. "I'm sorry, I thought for a moment that we had an understanding."

She sighed and leaned forward to stroke Fiela's head. "I'm sure you have other things to attend to, Lady Del. You may go. Enjoy the brunch."

"Wait," the other woman said nervously. "Can we not talk a bit longer?"

Lilian shrugged. "If you wish. But when Fiela is done, so are we."

# 63

Ridley appeared at the door of Ben's study. Waving away the blue smoke that drifted toward him from the cigars Ben and Romini were smoking, he said to Romini, "I had to interrupt, but I need to steal my nephew from you, Duke."

Ben, who was sitting with his feet propped up on the desk, pulled the cigar from his mouth and examined it. He looked at Romini, who was sitting in a leather chair on the other side of the desk. "Well, this one's just about done for. You good?"

Romini took in one last mouthful of smoke and pushed it back into the air slowly, savoring the flavor and aroma. "Yes, Anax. Thank you for saving me from the chattering of the masses for a glorious hour."

"You saved me," pointed out Ben, lowering his feet to the floor. "Let's do it again."

Romini stood, placing the remnant of his cigar in a nearby brass bowl. "Anytime."

He gave a slight bow and moved past Ridley into the corridor beyond, saying, "Scriptus."

Ridley nodded in acknowledgment then looked at Ben. He said, "Now that we have a formal arrangement, I thought it would be wise to give you a tour of some areas of Steepleguard you've not yet seen."

"You mean the rooms on the main floor that have locked doors? I thought those were just spaces you'd sealed off because you don't use them."

"That's true. But I've not abandoned or ignored them. I have, in fact, prepared them for when they would again be needed. If Lilian gains the recognition she desires, Steepleguard might again come alive with ceremonies, parties, and what-not."

Ben stepped toward him. "It's supposed to be her castle, you mean."

"And yours, when you're here. Are you ready?"

Ben motioned toward the corridor. "Lead the way."

Ridley did. They moved down the corridor, passing a coatroom, restroom, lounge, and other areas that were in use, and then into the main kitchen, which was bustling with activity. A dozen fetches and caterers from Denver were busy preparing food and drinks for the reception. There were several ice sculptures of what looked to be, in their initial stages, mythological beings.

The two passed into another corridor which ended at a single door. There was a cipher lock on it.

Ridley said, "The is a deterrent to prevent wanderers from accidentally entering any of the unused spaces. Wherever there is a cipher lock, the combination is 1453."

"Got it."

Ridley punched in the combination and turned the large black handle. When he opened the door, Ben saw that the room beyond was another kitchen. Entering, he found it surprisingly modern. It appeared new, in fact, with the manufacturers' tags and stickers still attached to the appliances. There were a half dozen stainless steel gas and electric ranges, four deep sinks, numerous refrigerators and freezers, and rows of metal cabinets on each wall. All the appliances were top-of-the-line and commercial grade. Hundreds of cooking utensils were attached to hooks above granite-topped islands.

Ben said, "You could cook for an army in here."

Ridley turned. "I'm glad to hear it. That was the parameter I gave the designer. Incidentally, there are some areas outside that we won't get to today. There is, for example, an underground storage tank in the back with fuel for the generators and several aboveground storage tanks of propane, in addition to some very scary-looking batteries powered by solar arrays and geothermal sources. There are also some good wood-burning stoves and iceboxes in the other kitchen."

" _Other_ kitchen? There's three?"

Ridley nodded, pivoted, and began walking to another door on the opposite side of the massive room. "Why feed one army when you can feed three?"

The two men left the kitchen and walked through a maze of paneled corridors, making so many turns at nondescript corners that Ben was certain he'd never be able to find his way back to the Great Hall on his own.

Ridley said, "Here we are."

The two men stopped in front of a plain white door with a handle for a knob. There was a black porcelain panel next to it.

"This," Ridley said, "is a _Class 5_ vault door. They look like any other door when closed, but they are made of thick steel. They are quite tough but not impenetrable. This is a bio-identification plate, like the one on the box which holds the script cauldron."

Ben studied it. "How do they work? Fingerprint analysis?"

"That and a DNA match. They also check respiration and perspiration levels, that kind of thing."

"A DNA match? I didn't know such systems existed."

"They are used by a few intelligence agencies. The system is classified, but with the right connections, anything is obtainable."

Ridley motioned toward the pane. "Would you do the honors?"

Ben nodded and lifted his hand, but before he touched the panel, he said, "You have my DNA?"

"Of course. Why, exactly, does that surprise you?"

It was a good question. Instead of answering, the researcher touched the panel. There was a whir and click. The door opened an inch on its own, and the old man pulled it still wider.

Ben was surprised at what lay beyond: a stone staircase that spiraled into the earth, each step illuminated by red LED lights. A cool breeze rose from the depths and swept over the two men, filling the air with a dank, musty smell.

"This is our basement," said Ridley as he drifted down the steps. "I've had an elevator installed nearby, hidden behind a temporary wall."

That seemed odd. "Why did you hide it?"

Ridley ignored the question. "Remind me to turn on the ventilators when we get to the bottom."

Ben followed the man. He heard the door above them close and guessed it was programmed to do so after a certain amount of time.

It amazed him how long it took them to reach the bottom of the stairs. At least two minutes, which was a long time even considering Ridley's sluggish pace. When the two men finally completed their descent, there was nothing in front of Ben but darkness.

He heard switches being flipped. Massive lights blinked to life overhead.

Ben's jaw dropped. He wasn't in a basement. He was standing in a large cavern, perhaps fifty yards in diameter and four stories tall. The lights buzzed loudly at first, then grew quiet.

"Whoa. You've got a cave?"

Ridley shrugged. "I thought all men had these nowadays. Have I overdone it?" He winked at Ben, adding, "Only a small portion of the cave is beneath the hotel. Most of it is offset to the east, beneath the parking lot."

Ben whistled. The old man had made some serious upgrades to what nature had provided. The electric lights that illuminated the space were attached to a lattice of steel girders that floated fifty feet above them, the beams supported by rows of steel columns. The cavern's natural floor, uneven and slippery, had been supplanted by an elevated platform of steel grates. Through the small gaps in the grates, Ben could see the rock floor beneath them, smooth, shiny, and wet. He could hear the gentle trickling of water.

"Freezers?" asked Ben, pointing at a row of metal doors along a far wall.

"Iceboxes. The hotel's builders used this cave for cold storage." s

The scribe walked onto the landing, motioning Ben to follow. As he did, the grates shifted slightly, filling the cavern with dull, metallic echoes.

He said, "The cave has a constant temperature of approximately fifty degrees. You'd be surprised how long ice will last even during the summer months. Also, a stream runs through the cave and pools at one end before draining back out into the mountain. The water is safe to drink. In a pinch, the hotel's former owners could insert bottles and jars into the stream to keep the contents cool."

"Over there," he continued, nodding at a series of metal doors built into the cavern's wall, "are the food supplies, a medical center, and some other useful facilities. Those are not original to the hotel, of course."

Ben scratched his head as he surveyed the many doors in the cave. A medical center? Food supplies? __

"Ridley, are you a survivalist? One of those 'peppers' readying themselves for the end of the world?"

The other man regarded him with amazement. "All humans are survivalists, Ben. Some of are simply better at it than others."

# 64

Shock troops from the 4th and 10th Peth-Allati guards ascended the mountain in eight non-descript recreational vehicles that were dispatched from Denver at twenty-minute intervals. Each RV carried a squad of men and women who were dressed not as soldiers, but eco-tourists, some wearing denim shorts and others cargo pants; some t-shirts and others sweat shirts. Some wore ball caps or bandanas. Most wore high-end hiking boots, and all carried oversized backpacks. It was in their backpacks that the Peth carried their combat armor, assault gear and weaponry, some of it disassembled.

The RV's discharged their occupants into a small gravel lot located at the foot of a state nature trail. The trail was seven miles in length, climbing up through the dense forest to a small waterfall before circling back and descending to an exit point twenty yards from where it began. The Peth made use of only the first three miles of the trail before diverging from it and moving through a long gully that would eventually take them to the hills overlooking the old Steepleguard Hotel.

A script had been issued closing the trail to tourists due to "unsafe conditions" caused by the heavy rains. Colonel Rudger, Lord Moros's senior guard and the Peth responsible for leading the contingent to Steepleguard, was of the opinion that the Nisirtu had inadvertently done the Ardoon a favor. While conditions were not exactly unsafe, they were definitely not suited for admiring nature's wonders. The dirt trail shown on his maps had morphed into a rushing stream with banks so muddy that his boots were sucked six inches into the earth with each ponderous step. The ceaseless downpour and pockets of mist limited visibility to twenty feet.

It had taken the century of Peth most of the afternoon to reach their staging point, a clearing a quarter-mile from the wooded ridge at the perimeter of Steepleguard. Rudger checked his watch when they arrived and saw that it was 1645 hours. The reception was still more than two hours away. He moved forward with a scout to survey the grounds below and saw the giant building that he had become so familiar with through photographs, satellite images, and drawings. Parked near the entrance were dozens of vehicles and semi-trailers around which buzzed a seemingly endless multitude of Ardoon workers.

_Worker bees,_ Rudger thought contemptuously, _bringing pollen to the queen inside the hive._

He summoned his platoon leaders to his side to allow them the opportunity to lay eyes on their target and then sent them back to brief their squad leaders. When they were gone, he pulled out his phone and texted "96" to Lords Moros and Nizrok, notifying them he and his troops were in position and ready to attack when the signal was given.

Then, he waited.

# 65

Fiela, her penitence complete and her dress restored to her, had donned a pair of black pumps. Apply a moisturizing lip gloss, she entered the Great Hall and stopped dead in her tracks.

This was not the Great Hall in which she'd spent so many years of her youth.

Workers had transformed the old reception desk at the far end of the hall into an elevated platform. Thick planks of polished mahogany now stretched from the edge of the hotel's old check-in counter to the back wall.

A gigantic scarlet tapestry hung on the wall above the platform, the angry face of a lamassu - a winged bull with a bearded and crowned human head - at its center. The lamassu was one of the many gods, demigods, and daemons of the Nisirtu pantheon.

Wooden steps, wide enough for four people walking abreast, led from the platform to the floor below.

There were also a dozen massive 90-inch televisions attached to the walls around the Great Hall, perhaps ten feet above the floor. There were speakers attached to the walls, also, centered between the televisions.

"A reception fit for a queen," said someone behind her.

Fiela turned and saw the gaunt face of the elderly Duke of the Ordunas, known to his peers as Hobuk, looking down at her. A tall man, even by Nisirtu standards, he was dressed in a tuxedo with a white carnation in one pocket. His thinning hair was slicked back by something shiny that smelled like gasoline. A glass of champagne was trapped in his spidery fingers.

"I would not know, Your Grace, as I have never been invited to any court."

The man swung his glass side to side and shook his head. "Young Fiela, you need not call me _'Your Grace,' "_ he said chidingly, as if embarrassed that she would do so. "A new day is upon us, and like most of the Nisirtu around you, I have grave concerns regarding what it holds for me after this reception. I do not think the Seven will smile upon attendance. I may forfeit everything."

"You shall still be a duke of the Nisirtu," protested Fiela.

The man raised his thin eyebrows. "In name, at least." He saluted her with his glass. "You, on the other hand? Your uncle has planned your future very well. A position as serretu to a man might soon be a king? Excellent. Of course, the man is Ardoon-"

" _Was_ Ardoon," Fiela said sharply.

"Indeed. Please forgive me." The man reassessed what he was about to say. "Yes, a dapper man, your husband. In fact, I suspect that somewhere in his family tree there was a Nisirtu who illicitly improved the gene pool. I have heard he is wickedly smart."

"He is," confirmed the Peth, wondering whether Ben had Nisirtu blood in his veins. Perhaps that is why he was so unlike the other slaves? She found herself intrigued by the possibility.

"And yet," continued Hobuk, "he is new to our ways. You must be careful to guide him if he becomes king. He will need your help."

The girl rolled her eyes. "My sister will advise him."

"Ah, yes," said the Nisirtu, looking troubled, "but you are the only serretu at the moment, and you will always be the senior serretu. There may come a time when...well, challenging days are ahead. Should you find that you are in need of counsel, I would be happy to provide it."

Fiela shrugged. "Okay."

The man was nonplussed. "Your sister does have enemies. Far more than you. That said, I wish her a long and prosperous reign."

"As do I," the Peth replied, tiring of the conversation and beginning to move away.

"Of course," the duke said quickly, "I dare say that you are not without your own enemies. I'm sure you are aware that Lilitu's more fanatical supporters might - and this is preposterous, I admit - but they might seek to have you removed."

That caught the girl's attention. "Me? Do you mean that they would have me killed? Why should they do that? I am but serretu."

The nobleman waxed apologetic. "I do not mean to distress you, Fiela, but you must face facts. Lilitu's legal status was better understood by the Seven than by even Lilitu until Barnum explained things to her."

Fiela narrowed her eyes. "How do you know about that?"

"The walls have ears, my dear Fiela. Surely you know that. My point is, were your husband to divorce her, she and her children would be marked. It is unfair, but the law is the law. Thus, you would become queen and your children the only heirs to the throne. Not Lilitu's."

"So?"

"This legal predicament means that Lilitu is beholden to Ben. She cannot reign without him. Thus, it is impossible that she would ever, well, dispense with him, as has happened in the past. You are in a far different - some would say 'more opportune' - situation. Were - the heavens forbid it - anything to happen to Ben, and he passed on to the underworld, you would be the queen, since Lilian has no survivor rights."

"I guess..."

"Yes, and thus, those who do not know you, nor your honorable ways, could unjustly conclude that you have nothing to lose and everything to gain by your husband's untimely demise. Lilitu's more fanatical supporters might have this opinion, for example. For them, you are a complication. They need Ben alive, yet they think you will ultimately kill him. That makes you a woman to be watched. For them, it would be far better if the king had no serretu."

Fiela's face turned crimson. "I shall protect my husband with my life."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the man, "You are Peth-Allati."

"I love him!" blurted the girl indignantly.

The outburst dumbfounded the duke, but he recovered like a pro. "And I have heard that he loves you very much, also."

Fiela gazed at him with suspicion. "From whom have you heard this?"

The Duke of the Ordunas replied, "It is widely acknowledged. There are no secrets among the Nisirtu, Fiela. It is known that he loves you, just," he ventured, "as it is known he does not love Lilitu. Oh, he is fond of her, yes, but love? No. Can you see why her supporters would resent you for that and scheme against you?"

Fiela could. "Why are you telling me this?"

The duke looked from one side of the room to the other before leaning down and saying, "Because, Fiela, there are many here who would prefer that _you_ be queen. You are a hero of the war against the Maqtu. You are respected and feared. Lilitu...well, she does have an unfortunate reputation. She is feared, certainly, but is that enough?"

He leaned back and grinned thinly. "Do you not understand why you are so respected? You fought for your cause while others, including many of the people around you at this very moment, cowered. Do you not know what they call you, the citizens of the Seven?"

"The bitch?" she said, thinking of Moros.

"Ha! No, my dear. Even now, they call you _Annasa_."

The duke winked at her and walked away, disappearing into a throng of laughing men and women near the hall's entrance.

As Fiela surveyed the room, she noticed for the first time that many of the guests were secretly watching her. Some moved to avoid her glance while others stared back with indifferent expressions. She found herself wondering who among them wished her dead and who wished her to be queen.

This, she realized, was Lilian's world, not hers, and certainly not Ben's, yet she dared not repeat to Lilian any of what the duke had told her. She would have to be careful about what she said and with whom she associated from this day forward, and she must warn her husband that, already, the daggers were being sharpened.

If she could find him.

# 66

Ben and Ridley stood in middle of the titanic cavern beneath Steepleguard.

Ben said, "Seriously, Ridley. What's with all this, and that kitchen above us, and all those advanced power systems? You don't need a cavern with a medical facility to host parties."

The scribe said, "Let me pose a question to _you_ , nephew. What is more dangerous to a man? A devil who entices him to be evil while being completely truthful about what evil is, or a devil who poses as an angel and entices a man to be good but then manipulates him into thinking that _fifty-percent_ good is _one-hundred percent_ good?"

"What?"

"It's a riddle. If you can answer it, I'll give you a great insight."

Ben sighed. "You Nisirtu love games."

"We do, yes."

Ben thought for a moment. "I don't see how one-hundred percent evil can be less dangerous than fifty-percent good."

"Really? But in the first case, the devil is honest and offers the man an honest choice. In the second, he lies and guarantees that the man will forever march toward the wrong objective, assuming the man's objective is to be as good as possible. You are saying the truth is more dangerous than the lie?"

"I'm saying that fifty-percent good beats zero-percent good."

"It is the lie that allows fifty-percent good," the scribe reminded him.

"Then I'd guess the lie is better. The truth is more dangerous than the lie. Is there a point to any of this?"

The scribe absently stroked his chin. "You have been understandably upset with Lilian and me for bringing you to Steepleguard without fully disclosing our motives. You think that we have taken advantage of you to further our own agendas."

Ben distended a cheek with the tip of his tongue. "Yes. You lured me here under false pretenses, tricked me into signing a document that means a great deal, though you implied it meant nothing, married me off to two women I hardly know, and ruined my life so that I would be acceptable to the Nisirtu. Everything prior to last night was a lie. About the only thing you've been honest about is the existence of the tablets, though I suspect that you didn't really want these studied. The tablets were merely the bait you used to get me here."

Ridley said, "You're right on most counts. You're even right about the tablets, though not in the way that you think. The truth is, I _know_ what's written on the tablets. What they _say_ , that is. I am still confounded by what they mean."

Ben crossed his arms and eyed the scribe. "Are you saying that you already know how to read them?"

"I never said I couldn't, did I?"

Ben, chest tightened. "What?"

"Yes. The truth is that I completed my translation long ago. My brain is wired in a way that allows the language to escape its neural cage when my mind is properly stimulated. My exposure to the tablets provided that stimulation, breathing life into what had been lifeless: the language of the heavens." He looked up, his arms outstretched. "The Empyrean Glossa!"

Ben stared at the other man, more bewildered than angry. "You're saying there was nothing special about me. You didn't find me by accident while looking for someone to study the tablets. You didn't need the tablets studied. What you told me last night was a lie, like everything else."

"I'm afraid so. But the lie was aimed at Lilian, not you."

"Lilian?" Ben struggled to maintain his composure. "Stop speaking in riddles, Ridley. What does that mean? Why am I here, really?"

Ridley studied the man. "Do you not have some vague idea, nephew? Is there perhaps not something now bubbling in the back of your mind? Some hint of reality?"

The researcher crossed his arm. "Enlighten me."

# 67

A few minutes before the reception was to begin, Fiela approached Lilian and said, "I cannot find our husband. Has he left us again?"

"Are you certain you have looked everywhere?"

"It is impossible to look everywhere."

Lilian tapped a fingernail against her front teeth as she pondered what to do. At last she said, "I will tell our guests that Ben is with Ridley discussing matters of great importance. They will accept that so long as we can present him afterward."

"I do not like appearing in front so many people," admitted Fiela, thinking of the Duke of the Ordunas and the eyes that had watched her every move earlier in the day.

"You need only introduce me. I will do the talking. You look wonderful, by the way. I meant to tell you that before."

Fiela was in the same red dress as earlier, though her hair was now tied up in a bun and she'd applied makeup.

She said, "When I was dressed or when I was naked?"

"You are beautiful always," answered Lilian.

"My lips will be chapped for days. I hope my humiliation served some important end."

"It did, in fact. I'll tell you about it later. You will thank me. Are you armed?"

"Of course." Fiela motioned at the small of her back where Lilian saw a handgun tucked into an almost invisible pocket at the back of the dress. "And I shall have the spear with me, as required by the ceremony. I still think I should be in uniform. I am your guardian."

"We have discussed this. You are serretu first and my guardian second. What would those assembled think if their future king's serretu, the prospective mother of princes and princesses that will govern them, was introduced wearing a combat uniform? You might as well walk in with a cigar in your mouth. Have you spoken to the fetches' superiors?"

"Yes. They know to be inside the building no later than 7:30, and they will be confined to the banquet hall. But why is that required of them?"

Lilian had practiced the lie. "I do not want Ardoon wandering the estate at night. It is a security risk."

Fiela nodded as if this made sense, though she wondered how the Ardoon would be any less a security threat _inside_ the hotel.

"Now," said Lilian, "ready yourself for the ceremony. Remember, only Agati is to be spoken tonight - no English or Russian or any other Ardoon language. There are too many slaves around us."

"Yes, Sister."

Lilian put a hand on Fiela's shoulder. "Do not be so glum. This will be over before you know it, I promise."

# 68

In the cavern beneath Steepleguard, Ridley said, "You asked me last night whether I brought you to Steepleguard for your research skills or because Lilian needed a husband. I said both. In truth, the answer is neither."

"What?"

"Nor did I bring you here to marry my niece, though I am grateful for that commitment. Understandably, you think that you have been sucked into an ongoing script as a supporting player. You think that the script is beyond your comprehension."

"That's right."

Ridley's eyes sparkled. There seemed to be a yellow light behind them. "What if I told you that you were _not_ brought here because of the script? What if I told you that the script exists _because of you?_ "

"I can't even guess what that means."

"It means, among other things, that I did not choose you as Lilian's husband. I chose her as your wife."

Ben's eyes narrowed. "What?"

The old man continued, counting off items on his fingers. "You will not be king because you bear the signet of Sargon; you bear the signet of Sargon because you are destined to be king. I did not choose you to study the tablets because you are an ancient language expert; you are an ancient language expert because of the tablets."

"Wait, wait, _wait,"_ interrupted Ben, annoyed. "What was that last one? I'm an expert on ancient languages because of the tablets?" He laughed. "Ridley, I had never seen the tablets before I came to Steepleguard and I certainly can't read them."

He studied the man. "You're beginning to worry me."

Ridley seemed to read his mind. "Don't worry, nephew. I'm not senile - not yet. I am giving you an accurate account of why you are really here. I am the only one who knows the truth, you see. Lilian does not, nor Fiela, nor anyone else in the Nisirtu."

He made a "follow me" gesture and walked twenty paces to a utilitarian metal table that had, until that moment, been concealed by the shadows. There were no chairs beneath it. On top was what looked like a yellow piece of cloth and a large leather-bound book.

Ridley lifted the cloth and stretched it taut, and Ben saw that it was not a piece of cloth, but rather a robe. There were odd cuneiform characters sewn into the silk trim around the cuffs and and hood.

"This is for you," said the old man. "A wedding gift."

"No offense, Ridley, but why do I need a yellow bath robe?"

"This is not just any robe, Ben. It's mine - or was. I wore it as a youth, when I was nearly your size. It is the robe of the Great Sage. It is said to have magical properties. It doesn't, of course, but you'll find the citizens of of the Fifth Kingdom will treat you with a great deal of respect if you wear it."

The scribe lowered the garment back to the table. He reached out and caressed the leather book beside it.

"What's that?" asked Ben.

"A wedding album." answered Ridley. "But that's for later."

He cleared his throat and turned to face the other man. "You are mistaken about not having seen the tablets before. You studied them long ago, and you mastered them. It was stunning to behold. By my estimation, fewer than one in a billion people on the planet have brain configurations that make it possible to do what you and I can do."

Ben shook his head in disgust. "You know what I see when I look at the tablets, Scriptus? A bunch of colored lines that look like they were made by a tattoo artist revved up on speed _._ "

The scribe was unphased. "That's because I made you forget, Ben. I used what they taught me against you. You could have easily prevented me from doing so, of course. A scorpion cannot be killed by its own sting. But you agreed it was necessary and found a way to lower your mental shields and to let me do what had to be done."

"Ridley," sighed Ben, rubbing his temples, "that's more hocus-pocus. More metaphysics. This has got to end."

The scribe continued as if Ben had not spoken. "I blocked not only your memory of the tablets and the language, but of _me_ , your mentor. It had to be done. You agreed that it is unwise to unleash upon the world a boy with the power to make everyone around him do and believe whatever he wishes. The power terrified you. Of course, I did not and could not delete the language. It remained in your mind, primal and restive, which is why you have always been drawn to the study of languages and have always excelled at them."

Grinning, the scribe said, "You had a built-in cheat-sheet."

"More legends and lies," replied Ben, not impressed.

The scribe said, "Animals are born with languages. They do not learn them. A dog's bark in one nation is understood by a dog raised in another. The mating call of a bird on one continent is understood by a bird of the same species born on another. The languages are inherent to the species.

"The Empyrean Glossa was the first language of _sentient_ beings, Ben. It is the language not only of humans, but also of angels, demons, and gods. It is universal and primal. It is, in a word, _perfect._ Extremely difficult concepts that would take thousands of words in any other language can be expressed in Empyrean in far fewer. Perhaps as few as one or two."

Ben shook his head. "One or two?"

"Yes, if they are the _right_ words. Words that most humans cannot comprehend because they carry so much meaning. Words worth a thousand pictures. A speaker of the Empyrean express himself perfectly. He or she is able to convince any listener who does not speak Empyrean to do or believe anything. The speaker could, in a few syllables, send a listener into a panic, or a rage, or the throngs of ecstasy."

"Again, I don't follow you."

The sage explained. "All humans are persuadable. Politicians are experts at persuading people, as are dictators, propagandists, lawyers, writers, poets, salesmen, priests, advertisers, and marketers. They use words and images to convince listeners to believe what they want them to believe or to feel what they feel. People can even be convinced they saw something that never happened. Yet, this takes time. Hours, week, months, or, in the case of advertisers, sometimes years.

"In contrast, a speaker of Empyrean needs only seconds because his ideas are _perfectly expressed_. They register as uncontestable truths to any who hear them."

A light went off above Bens head. "Ah...okay, now I see. You're saying that's how the legendary Sillum turned the king's guards against him and enslaved a population. He spoke Empyrean."

Ridley nodded. "Yes, and thus, whatever he _said_ was real _became_ real in the minds of his listeners. Whatever he told them to do, they were compelled to do. The listeners were mentally unequipped to challenge the perfectly formed concepts he put into their minds."

"But," objected Ben, raising a hand lazily into the air, "Here's the problem: If all sentient beings are gifted with the Empyrean Glossa, why doesn't everyone still speak it?"

"A good question that's difficult to answer. I've given it considerable thought, of course. Presumably, a perfect language would require a lot of brainpower. It could be that humans somehow evolved away from it - perhaps our brains were put to better use learning how to make fire or hunt wild boar. Perhaps, for some unknowable reason, the ability to tap the language has been denied us by some outside force."

"Outside force? Are you serious?"

"I speak only of possibilities, Ben. There are many."

"But you're talking about a spoken language. That inscriptions on the tablet are a written language. That's two different things."

Ridley shook his head. "In this instance, the language and the writing system are of the same essence. They were born together. Both are perfect."

Ben, growing tired of the fictions, nodded. "Okay," he sighed. "Good talk, Ridley. Now-"

Before he could finish, Ridley spoke a word. It hit the researcher like a sledgehammer to the chest.

He fell to the floor

# 69

Fiela descended into the Great Hall from the left staircase. Diagonally across her body she carried a seven-foot spear consisting of a gold shaft and iron tip from which hung silk streamers of various colors. Lilian, dressed in a purple sequin dress, sleeveless but modestly cut just above her knees and below her neck, followed. Diamonds and rubies glittered on chains about her wrists and neck.

As Fiela entered the Great Hall, a hush fell over the hundreds that had gathered. She led Lilian up the stage and with the older woman standing a few feet behind her, slammed the base of the spear into the wooden stage seven times, sending thundering booms throughout the hall.

She yelled, "Behold the Nisirtu, Lilitu of Sargon, Regis Filia, Rightful Annasa of the Fifth Kingdom, Dominus of the Ardoon, Savior of the Nisirtu, and Vanquisher of the Maqtu." There was a smattering of untimely applause that died quickly.

She slammed the spear into the mahogany planks again as she took in a new breath. "Behold, Lilitu of Sargon, Charge of the Great Sage and Asatu to the Heir of Sargon."

Looking over her shoulder, she saw Lilian nod. Fiela knew that she had done what was required of her and was preparing to step back when she saw the Duke of the Ordunas standing near the stage. Staring directly at him, she slammed the spear into the stage once more and said, "Behold, my sister, _whom I love!"_

There were murmurs in the audience and a few confused looks, as this was not part of the required ritual, but then the throng applauded enthusiastically, some shouting, " _Well done, Fiela!_ " The duke expressed a sudden interest a cufflink.

Lilian moved forward, touching the Peth on the back in gratitude as she cocked an eyebrow and whispered, "Nice improvisation." She kissed her on the cheek and Fiela retreated to the back of the stage, where she stopped and rested the spear against her chest. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might explode.

Standing in front of the giant red lamassu tapestry, Lilian scanned the assembly before her. She was pleased by what she saw. Yes, a few dignitaries were missing, as she had expected, but most of the important people were there, in addition to select members of the citizenry. Three hundred and eighty-seven handsome, impeccably dressed men, women, and children.

The power she felt was electrifying. She had spent over two decades under house arrest. True, a rather lenient and indulgent form of house arrest, yet there had been no doubt that she was on the periphery of the great circle, a dark planet in the smallest and outermost system of a galaxy full of shining stars.

The Nisirtu standing before her were, by and large, the secret allies of her father who had escaped the broad net of his usurpers. She knew that some were loyal to the blood that ran through her veins. Others supported her because they distrusted the Seven for undermining the Ardoon that they ruled and required for their subsistence. Still others, she knew, were admirers of Scriptus Ridley. Even King Sargon's enemies treated Ridley with respect, so when the scribe had covertly announced his support for Lilian, others had fallen in line, even if they thought her father mad and her a megalomaniac.

Lilian did not care why those assembled had placed their futures in her hands. She only cared that they had.

Taking inventory of the audience, she determined that she would get the best results with a rant against the Ardoon. She didn't want the hawks thinking she was weak and even the moderates loved the occasional fire-and-brimstone sermon. Her position would be that the Seven had the right idea but the wrong approach. It was their approach she opposed, not their hard line against the Ardoon.

_Silly games, these_ , she thought, but as Ridley had said, the people love a good show.

# 70

"I'm removing the block," said Ridley, standing above Ben. "I'm afraid it will be an unsettling experience, but there's no way around it. It's rather like detox and will take a few hours. I am speaking to you, even now, in the language of the tablets, the Empyrean Glossa, awakening that which has been asleep inside you."

Ben, already one the floor, rolled onto his side. The room was spinning, and he grabbed the floor in vain attempt to stop it. Fragments of memories sparked to life inside his head. Spirals unwound themselves like dragons uncoiling their tails.

"Why are you doing this?" he moaned, not really understanding what 'this' was. He only knew that he was in great pain, and that Ridley was somehow the cause.

"Because I have been told to do so," said Ridley. "We all have masters, Ben. This is my role in a script not of my making. It is a far larger, more complex script than anything I have ever attempted. It is one of a seemingly infinite number of scripts tied together into a single scenario that commenced with the birth of this reality. I do not know how it ends. I cannot see the convergence point, though I have been told it is almost upon us."

Ben retched as the world picked him up and slammed him back to the ground. He looked at the scribe and said accusingly, "The Seven..."

Ridley looked amused. "The Seven? Me? No, no. Unlike you, nephew, they are _truly_ pawns. As was Lilian's father. I was the one who spoke the words that drove King Sargon mad, convincing him that a foreign god was threatening his kingdom. I fed his nightmares and spoke the words that convinced him to rebel against the other kingdoms. I was the one who, at my trial, spoke the words that planted the seeds of destruction in the minds of seven monarchs – seeds that would grow into a conviction that the world must be brought to an end.

"I spoke the words that ensured three kings would rebel. The war between the Maqtu and Seven was necessary to thin out the ranks of both, you see. The script that still runs will make them weaker still. The planet will be ripe for the plucking tomorrow, Ben. It will be ready for _you_."

"For me?" groaned the man on the floor. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

Ridley leaned forward and put his hands on his knees. "Whatever you like, Ben. Save lives or take them. Feed the hungry or raid the homes of the poor. Build churches or kill priests. The script only calls for you to rule. How you rule is up to you."

He again stood erect and raised a finger into the air. "Know this, however: A great power will soon spread from the opposite side of the world towards Steepleguard, and it will take everything that you do not. It is a power waking from a long sleep, even now. It is readying itself. It will take what you discard and will fight for what you call your own. The choice to do nothing is a choice unto itself, and there will be consequences, so do not think that you can write yourself out of the script. Without you, the Fifth Kingdom falls, and humanity will suffer whatever the _other_ wishes it to suffer."

Ben moaned in agony as the lines unraveled in his brain like a giant, industrial spring. His head felt like it was being cracked open from the inside. The last broken and unfocused words he mustered before the blackness were, "Who is your master?"

Ridley smiled sadly. "The truth, Ben? I don't know. _But who does?"_

# 71

The lights of the Great Hall dimmed as the many televisions around the room flickered to life. On each was the image of a scowling lamassu against a scarlet background. The creatures seemed to be alive and peering at the mortals gathered below.

The crowd murmured.

Lilian said, "Thank you all for coming to my reception. My husband is in conference with Scriptus Ridley about matters of great importance, so I will take this opportunity to say a few words about why we are really here: The end of this era, and the start of a new one.

"The weeks and months to come will be a terrible shock to the Ardoon. For centuries, they have experienced nothing but forward progress and so have forgotten that the thing they call _civilization_ is an artificial construct, a flickering flame that can at any moment be extinguished. They have become vain, thinking that it is their birthright to have a stable and fruitful existence and that the blackness they emerged from can never reclaim them.

"The Ardoon of today are in some ways even more slavish than their ancestors. They have many more masters, yet they have deluded themselves into thinking they are free and independent. Their toy phones and computers and the internet have given the slaves the ability to speak to one another instantly, and to share ideas, and to communicate, and they imagine this enhanced ability to babel is _power._ They have said, _'Who can stand against us, when we are united? Social media is more powerful than any government and with it we can topple kingdoms.'_ They point to the so-called 'Arab Spring' as evidence of this, as well as the toppling of some insignificant Ardoon institutions.

"Having misconstrued the toppling of a few small governments that had been _scripted_ to topple, they have grown cocky and think themselves gods. Now they say, _'It is unfair that we do not have what our masters have. They are one and we are ninety-nine. Why should they have more than us? Let us unite so that no government and no kingdom may rule us! Let us become like our masters. Let us invade their world and claim it and distribute the spoils of our plunder amongst our own kind. For if we are ninety-nine and they are but one, surely it is right that we do so.'_ "

There were murmurs of disgust in the audience.

"This is what happens when masters share their prosperity with their slaves. The slaves do not love their masters for what they are given but rather resent their masters for what they are _not_ given. The Ardoon of today have leeched off the achievements of their superiors far too long. If not stopped they will raid field and factory and gorge themselves with food and toys and luxuries, and when it is all gone, and their masters are dead, they will cry _'More!'_ "

She stared at those below her for a long second before saying quietly, "But there will be no more."

Nods and whispers of agreement greeted this pronouncement.

"Only the guiding hand of the true and uncorrupted Nisirtu has allowed humanity to progress to its current state. The human cesspool in this country and others idle away their time texting or emailing or calling one another on their shiny toys to babble incessantly about every second of their miserable, directionless lives. It is like the grunting of pigs in pens. They send endless streams of photos of themselves to their slave friends. And do you know why they do this? Because their lives have so little meaning that they secretly wonder if they, themselves, even exist."

Lilian pantomimed holding a phone to her ear. "Did you get the selfie of me eating that fish taco, Chad? Yeah? And was I in it? Are you sure? Good, just checking!"

There were a few chuckles.

"The problem," continued Lilian, "is that we have allowed the Ardoon to ascend Maslow's pyramid. They are consumed with the need to improve their self-esteem and to self-actualize. They cannot do this, we know, because they are trespassing into the realm of the Nisirtu. Their proper place is at the base, where they are fated to scurry for food and clothing, humping like dogs and following their carnal desires wherever they might lead. Even the Ardoon elite, their pathetic rulers, equate toys and money with power, not understanding that power is a thing unto itself. They make this error because they share the genes of the animals they rule. You can put a suit on a slave, but he remains a slave!"

Lilian exhaled and took a few steps before continuing. "Well, the zenith of the Ardoon has finally arrived. Humanity shall rise no higher because the Nisirtu have grown weary of the Ardoons' wicked ways. The Families have rightly said, 'The Ardoon seek to become like us, so we shall confound and silence them. We will take from them their precious internet. We shall destroy their phones, radios, and televisions. Let us further deny them electricity, and water, and engines, and farms, and medicine, and security. Let us return them to their natural state so that their eyes will be reopened to the reality of their pathetic existence.'"

The screens of the television flickered, compelling everyone in the room to look up at them.

Lilian smiled. "Behold, my Family, the Apocalypse Script."

# 72

Each of the televisions was tuned to the largest cable news provider in the nation, as evidenced by the large logo in the lower right-hand corner.

Three reporters, two men and a woman, sat behind a large, curved news desk. The appeared to be in shock. On the left-hand side of the screen, a blue box flashed headlines in white letters:

> _BREAKING NEWS_
> 
> _Japanese Prime Minister assassinated during visit to Malaysia._
> 
> _Cage's variant with 99.97% mortality rate spreading like wildfire through Africa and southern Europe._
> 
> _U.S. warns of imminent launch of ICBMs from North Korea, Iran._
> 
> _Twenty-Six Interstate and Major Highway Bridges destroyed in U.S. overnight, crippling transportation system._
> 
> _Cigar-shaped objects seen over every continent._
> 
> _World stock markets in 'death spiral.' Thousands reported ill after water systems in Europe and Russia found contaminated by unknown microbe._
> 
> _Marxists storm Moscow demanding return to Soviet 'prosperity.'_
> 
> _Internet brought to a crawl by 'Gilgamesh Virus'._
> 
> _U.S. president unlikely to recover from Cage's, vice president also reported ill._
> 
> _Paramilitary forces overrun seven U.S. National Guard bases in upper Midwest and Texas._
> 
> _Mexican forces reportedly positioning themselves near the Texas border._

Lilian said, "We are 'tenderizing' the Ardoon. The fibers of their society are being broken down. Half of what you see reported is a fiction. It is misinformation being introduced by our scripts in order to influence how the survivors behave after the lights go out. The scripts are playing on their fears. The slaves believe what they want to believe. Once the sounding boards are removed, they will be transformed from believers to zealots."

As she spoke, the giant banner appeared at the top of each screen.

> _NEWS FLASH BREAKING NEWS NEWS FLASH_ \- - _DIRTY BOMBS REPORTED DETONATED IN LOS ANGELES_ —

"Oh my," said Lilian. "That is unfortunate, is it not? But is it real, or fiction? Who is to say?" She walked to a nearby podium and clicked a button on a sleek black remote. The volume bars expanded from left to right at the bottom of the screens. The speakers came to life.

"Yes, Jason," said the woman on the television, studying a sheet of paper in front of her, "right, okay...yes."

She looked back toward the camera and said, "We are being told, telephonically, and anecdotally, that the internet is down in many...what?...okay...I should say, is reportedly down in many places around the world, to include Atlanta and New York. Unfortunately, many of our network's wire feeds are internet-based, so we are unable to collaborate from our usual sources how widespread this outage is."

The camera zoomed in on a stern-faced reporter to her right, a man with gray hair and a bow tie. "Sue, everyone I've talked to is reporting an outage. Of course, any voice-over-internet-protocols are - is that the right term, Scott? It's okay? - any computer-based or internet-based phones are down, too. That's what I'm trying to say. This has put everyone on their heels and-"

"Definitely," interrupted the woman, "and it couldn't come at a worse time, because there have been some amazing and, I think it's fair to say, unbelievable reports appearing on the internet the past hour - everything from launches of missiles to alien spacecraft spotted - what? Okay, right, I must emphasize that these are, to say the least, 'unsubstantiated' reports."

"Right, Sue, but it can't be a coincidence that this internet outage has occurred simultaneously to the rumors of war that - _unsubstantiated_ rumors of war between the United States and-"

He tilted his head down, listening to someone speak to him via his earpiece. "Fine, fine. I'll just shut up then." The fear in his voice was palpable – as was his frustration. "Vance is here - Vance, what could cause this?"

Another reporter appeared on the screen, a young man without a suit coat. "Any number of things can cause a temporary outage, but one as widespread as this is unheard of. In the booth we're seeing reports of this event from every television news channel we monitor, so it's clearly not a local problem."

"A virus, maybe?"

"It would be one heck of a virus. It could be a combination of different types of attacks, to include physical destruction of the infrastructure that makes the internet possible, though the effort required to do that would be-"

"Vance, sorry to interrupt, but assuming this is a worldwide outage, will it affect texting services, emails, things of that nature?"

"Without question, yes. It will shut everything like that down. We're essentially back to the 1970s until a solution can be found, but that will be problematic given that the people who solve such problems largely rely on the internet to communicate with one another. You can imagine the isolation being felt by literally billions of people who suddenly find themselves detached from the rest of the world. It's something the current generation has never had to deal with."

"But it is clearly no accident, right? The internet doesn't just go down - some nation-state must be behind this. Would the U.S. have a reason or the ability to do this? For example, if there was a war?"

"It's hard to believe that it could, really, but if it could, war is only one of many reasons they might do that. Reports of border incursions around the world, of approaching meteors, of spacecraft-"

"Vance, we can't validate any of that, and we don't want viewers to assume-"

"We can't validate _shit_ , Sue. Sorry, but we've got nothing. The wires are down."

At that point, the camera on Vance went dark, and his microphone was cut off. Sue was visibly upset as someone seemed to be escorting Vance from the set, even as another reporter ranted about illegal state militias mobilizing.

Lilian clicked the mute button. "Hell in a handbasket," she said into her microphone. "Alas, it won't be long before things get _really_ bad."

# 73

Ben yelled, "Ridley!"

But there was no Ridley. There was no cavern. There was no Steepleguard.

Ben found himself standing in the middle of vast, snow-covered plain that extended as far as he could see in every direction. Around him, large white flakes fell gently to the ground from a uniformly gray sky.

"Ridley!" he yelled again, spinning around.

The only response was the howling of the wind.

How did he get to this place he wondered. And why wasn't he cold?

"Listen!" came the voice.

Ben spun around again, looking for the source of the command. This time his effort was rewarded. Only ten feet away was a cheap metal desk, a man sitting behind it.

_Charlie Chaplin?_

"Listen!" said the man again.

Ben found himself saying, "You can't talk. You only make silent films."

Chaplin twitched his nose and the rectangular mustache below it. Except that it wasn't Charlie Chaplin. It was Zeus, a toga wrapped around him, his large beard resting atop it.

"See!" commanded Zeus with a voice that was like a clap of thunder. The earth shook.

Ben looked.

Zeus held up a sheet of paper. On it was a drawing of four men descending from the heavens on horses. Lord Moros, riding a white horse with angry red eyes, was in the lead. Ben didn't recognize the other riders, but their horses were red, brown, and black.

Below them was a wooded hill. Lilian, one hand on her stomach, was hiding in the trees, peering up at the horsemen.

Beneath the hill, far, far below, was a multitude of men, women, and children. Most were dead. Those who weren't dead were emaciated, their skin pulled tightly over their bones. They bared their teeth at one another. In their hands were guns, axes, spears, swords, clubs, and a million other tools of death.

"Listen!" commanded Zeus, except that it wasn't Zeus. It was a man in a yellow robe.

It was Ridley.

He held up a sheet of paper on which was written "MS - Apocalypse Variant 446."

Ben said, "I'm listening."

# 74

They were, by the driver's estimation, thirty-five miles from the turn that would take them to Steepleguard. They had acquired a new BMW with all the amenities for the trip but the man at the wheel, dressed in a black silk suit and tie, hadn't enjoyed the drive. He was unfamiliar with the steep, twisting road up the mountain. The fog and heavy rain had made every mile a white-knuckle nightmare. The skies were a rolling sea of gray and black clouds that too-frequently flickered white and blue, their booms of thunder rattling him.

He wrestled with the steering wheel as the storm's unrelentingly violent winds buffeted the car. The winds were the reason the helicopter flight to the top of the mountain had to be canceled, and the hellish drive was necessary.

He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes after three o'clock.

"We're fine, Sullin," said Jathus, the woman next to him. She was dressed in a sparkling black evening gown, cut low to display a great deal of both her breasts and the diamond necklace dangling from her neck. "The attack isn't for four hours. All we're going to do until Lilitu's surrender is to sit in the car and stare out the windshield."

"Sorry," the man said. "I don't drive much. That's what Mr. Fetch is for."

"Enjoy it," said Lord Nizrok from the seat behind him. "After tomorrow, you'll have few opportunities to do so."

"That's right," said Benidita, the other backseat passenger, a middle-aged woman who was dallying with her Rolex. "The cars won't start after the EMP blasts."

"Not that it would matter," Nizrok added. "It will be impossible to find a road that's not jammed with abandoned vehicles and corpses."

"I know," said Sullin. "But I hadn't expected to spend the day before the end like this. I'd always envisioned myself sitting at my favorite Italian restaurant, slowly drinking myself into a stupor and carb-loading. I'd even recruited an Italian cook as a fetch."

"A good investment," said Nizrok, pulling a cigar from a pocket and biting off the end. The aroma of the Cuban tobacco comforted him. The woman next to him wrinkled her nose disapprovingly, but he didn't care. He was a Peth lord whose troops were about to root out a serpentine rebel. If he wanted a cigar, he was damn well going to have a cigar.

Benidita, like the two people in the front of the car, was a dignitary from another House. She was from the Fifth, while Jathus was from the Eighth and Sullin from the First. The Seven had required representation from those kingdoms not taking part in the attack to be present during Lilitu of Sargon's surrender.

Ostensibly the dignitaries' presence was intended to show that the Seven were united in their opposition to Sargon's daughter, but the Peth lord suspected that the other Families did not trust Moros and Nizrok to represent their interests when negotiating the surrender of the aristocrats who would be present. The First, Fifth, and Eight Kingdoms wanted their fair share of the fame and spoils that came with victory over Lilitu, even though they had not committed a single Peth to the battle. The Fifth would undoubtedly stake a claim on Steepleguard when the smoke had cleared.

Not that there should be a battle. Lilitu's guests were professionals, aristocrats, or tradesmen, and there had been no signs of troop movements anywhere around Steepleguard in the past forty-eight hours. The woods and hills around the old hotel were devoid of human life. If Lilitu had banked on bringing warriors in by helicopter, she had picked the wrong day for the reception. Nobody would be flying anywhere in this weather.

"Roadblock ahead," Sullin grumbled.

Nizrok and Benidita leaned in toward one another and peered through the windshield. The rain was relentless, but between swipes of the wipers they could see a highway patrol car with its flashers on. It was parked on the other side of a collection of large rocks that had rolled onto the road from the muddy bank above them.

Nizrok said, "No need for concern. Lord Moros and I have arranged for a few roadblocks to prevent Lilitu from calling in reinforcements and to prevent Ardoon involvement. Speak to the man in Agati."

Sullin nodded. As they slowed to a stop, a state trooper in a fluorescent orange raincoat emerged from the other car and trotted over to the BMW, a battery-operated baton glowing orange in one hand. When he reached the car, he tapped on the driver's window. Sullin lowered it, recoiling from the icy rain that pelted his face.

"Rockslide?" he asked, squinting to keep the water out of his eyes.

The trooper nodded. "Yes sir, one here and one about four miles further up. It's a bad day to be on this road. The bank above is falling apart." He peered in, saw the other occupants, and said, "I'm guessing you folks aren't hikers."

"No," said Jathus, switching to Agati. "We are representatives of the Seven come to witness the surrender of Steepleguard. Lord Nizrok is with us. You will let us pass."

"Right away, sir," said the state trooper who was not a state trooper, also in Agati. "I'll make sure no traffic is coming from the other direction. Please drive slowly. It really is dangerous."

"I will," said Sullin.

Switching back to English, the man in the fluorescent raincoat said, "Alright, you folks have a good day." He trudged back up the wet road to the rockslide, fighting the wind. When he got to the boulders in the road, he waved the orange baton toward the car before pointing it to the outer limits of the slide.

The driver cautiously moved the BMW into the oncoming lane of traffic and was focused on the policeman's baton when Jathus suddenly gripped his leg.

"I know that man," she gasped.

"He's from your House?" asked Sullin, mildly annoyed at her because he was trying to focus on the maneuvers necessary to clear the obstacles in the road. There were large boulders a few inches to the right of the car and a guardrail a few inches to the left. Driving between them with almost zero visibility was like threading a needle.

"No, he _was_ from my House."

The driver grunted an acknowledgment.

"Sullin, he's a rebel! Maqtu! Stop the car!"

"He - oh, _shit!_ " cried Sullin, slamming on the brakes. He turned to warn the passengers in the backseat, but it was too late. A spray of bullets shattered the windshield. One of the bullets sailed cleanly into the side of his skull above his left ear, scrambling his brain before tumbling out of his right jaw, showering the passengers in the back with blood.

"Maqtu!" screamed the woman in front, reaching for her phone. A small metal canister rocketed through the shattered windshield before she could punch the panic button. The object hit the driver's corpse in the chest before plopping into his lap and rolling to the floorboard between his feet. The hiss of escaping gas filled the car's interior.

Jathus began to convulse.

Nizrok tried to open his door, but the adjacent guardrail blocked it, just as boulders blocked the doors on the other side of the car. Cursing, he pulled his pistol and shot at the window next to him only to find that the bullet made a hole in the safety glass instead of shattering it.

As Benidita screamed, the Peth leaned back and kicked at the window with his heels. It was too late. Millions of barbed particulates wafted up through his nostrils and into his lungs, where they released their payloads into his bloodstream. The muscles in his legs constricted and his chest emptied of air as Bendita's screams became gargles, and her body began to spasm.

The Peth lord would never see the new world.

# 75

Lilian spoke to the stunned Nisirtu crowded below her.

She said, "My friends, this civilization is at an end. In a hundred years, or a thousand, it will be forgotten. Consider the fate of the _Olmec,_ the _Mycenaeans,_ the _Minoans,_ the _Anasazi,_ and hundreds of other civilizations that tested the patience of the Nisirtu."

She moved across the stage. In the stillness, her footsteps sounded like the firing of cannons.

"Not only will today's civilization collapse, it will cease to exist even as a memory. It shall become a thing of legend to the descendants of the Ardoon and later not even that.

"The coming realignment is on a scale never attempted by our ancestors. It is the eradication of not one or two civilizations but _all of them at once_. This is a complete remaking of the world, and it is not a matter to be taken lightly. The Families think the downward spiral can be controlled and that they can avoid the vortex the Ardoon are sucked into."

She shook her head slowly, dramatically. "They are either delusional or horribly misinformed. I do not plan on paddling around the whirlpool and hoping for the best. I plan to stand here, on _terra firma_ , and to watch my foolish peers as they are pulled into the depths. As the Great Sage once told me, 'It is foolish to _pull_ an enemy off a bridge when he can be _pushed_.'

"I think many of you are of the same mind. We are, in a way, like the ark of legend. None of you have been selected by chance. Among you are not only wise and worthy nobles but also architects, engineers, physicians, statisticians, biologists, and experts from dozens of other fields. All of you are here because you will be needed to re-establish civilization. You are the progenitors of the new world. This place, Steepleguard, shall be your new home."

She opened her arms to the congregation. "Welcome to Mount Olympus. Welcome to the rebirth of the Fifth Kingdom of the Nisirtu."

# 76

Looking up, Lilian saw two men at the far end of the Great Hall near the doors that led to the courtyard. She recognized one of them as a man known to the Ardoon as Todd Peck, though his Nisirtu name was Torbitz. He was a chemist with blond hair down to his shoulders who looked like he had stepped off the cover of an old romance paperback. She was unfamiliar with the other man, who was a bit shorter and dark-haired, but Lilian thought they had arrived together.

They scanned the room furtively before casually putting their backs to the doors and trying to push them open. The doors didn't budge. The two men conferred in whispers before making their way through the crowd in Lilian's general direction, though she knew they were focused on the corridors behind and on either side of her that led to other egresses.

When they were only ten feet from the stage, she said loudly enough for everyone present to hear her, "Gentlemen, are you leaving us? This is a most inopportune time. Where are you going?"

The two men froze when they realized she was speaking to them. Looking back awkwardly, the man named Torbitz said, "We beg your pardon, Princess, but we were looking for the, uh...the _facilities_."

"A bit too much wine," added the other man, trying hard to smile.

Lilian put on her mask of astonishment. "Is it so urgent that you would leave just ten minutes before I conclude my remarks? Why did you attempt to leave the building? Did you intend to relieve yourself in the bushes? I think you have lived among the Ardoon too long!"

Others in the room laughed, but uneasily. The air was thick with tension. Fiela moved toward the men.

Seeing the Peth's movements, Torbitz held up his hands. "It was a mistake," he said, taking a step back. "You're right, Princess, it was very bad timing. But you see, we did not want to push through the other guests and disrupt the proceedings. We assumed there was another entrance to the building that we could access once we were outside. No offense was intended."

"Oh," said Lilian, "I _do_ see. Unfortunately, it is quite impossible to either enter or exit the building. All the doors are locked, and they are substantial doors."

"Ah," said Torbitz, unable to handle the weight of his artificial smile. "What are we to do?"

"Perhaps you should call your friends in the hills above and ask them."

The other guests began worriedly whispering to each other, their eyes never leaving the stage. The two men said nothing.

"I'm sure the Peth surrounding Steepleguard would have some timely advice for you," continued Lilian. "You are hoping to evacuate the building before they attack, no doubt, to ensure you don't get caught in the crossfire."

The situation was now clear to Fiela, who lowered the tip of the ceremonial but still quite functional spear. She stepped forward until the iron tip floated only inches from Torbitz's statuesque face. He tried to retreat but found himself held by a group of men that had assembled behind him.

Lilian motioned for the men holding Torbitz and his anonymous friend to bring them to the edge of the platform. The tip of Fiela's spear floated steadily above Torbitz's nose like an angry fly. When he was near enough, Lilian crouched and whispered into his ear, "Give me the name of the other spies, and I shall spare your miserable life."

"What? Please! I don't know!"

"Unfortunate," she said, standing. "Peth, how quickly can you make these creatures into trophies?"

"Five minutes," answered Fiela.

"No! Please!" screamed the other man. "Let us join you! I spit on the Seven!"

Torbitz scowled at his confederate.

"A good decision made too late," said Lilian. Turning back to her flock, she said, "Anyone with children or a low tolerance for spilled blood should turn around now."

Some did, but most, even those with children, did not. It was not the Nisirtu way.

"Do it," said Lilian with a flick of her wrist. Fiela instantly shoved the tip of the spear into Torbitz's left eye. He screamed for only a second because the Peth immediately began spinning the spear tip, grinding the man's brain to a gray paste. It was, in its way, a merciful execution. The other man suffered longer simply because his writhing caused Fiela to first severe his nose.

When she was done, she looked at Lilian questioningly.

"Thank you, Sister, but that is all. Be quick about the trophies."

The men who had blocked the traitors hauled their corpses toward the kitchen, Fiela following. Lilian again faced her audience, which quieted.

"Such things are to be expected, and were," she said. "Yes, we are surrounded by Peth-Allati under the command of Lords Moros and Nizrok. They have orders to capture us and try us as rebels before the Seven. I am not inclined to give them that pleasure. I find it ironic that they now wish me at court after having banned me from it for two decades."

"Is Lord Moros here?" asked a boy at the front. It was an innocent question. He might as well have asked if Santa Clause was on the roof.

"No, child, he is not. He has dispatched his underlings for this. But I believe he is on his way."

"What shall we do?" asked the woman standing over him, his mother.

"I would suggest," said Lilian, speaking not only to her, but to everyone in the room, "that you retire to your rooms, and stay there until I send for you. I hope this can be concluded within the hour."

"Do you need our assistance?" yelled an older man from the back of the room. Lilian saw it was Lord Shadernum, an old but stout former Peth of the Fifth Kingdom who had once served her father, before the madness. He had to be nearing ninety, thought Lilian, yet he was still a bear of a man, with thick white hair and a braided beard and a patch over one eye. When she was a toddler, the man often carried her on his shoulders around her father's estates.

Lilian smiled radiantly as the memories resurfaced. "Lord Shadernum, you are ever-loyal, but no. Fiela is my protector now."

"I am willing to work under her!" yelled the old man, grinning, "or in any position she will have me!"

Coming from anyone else such humor would have been scandalous, but most of the guests knew that the aging Peth was a favorite of Lilian's and could do no wrong. Several in the audience laughed, and the laughter became contagious. Just like that, Lord Shadernum had swept away all the tension that had been building in the Great Hall.

"Any man who can handle my sister is a man to be reckoned with!" yelled Lilian in return, which resulted in additional laughter.

She made a shooing gesture. "Now, off with the lot of you. We shall reassemble later."

As directed, the guests began climbing the various staircases to their rooms above. Some entered their rooms while others opted to remain outside, looking over the interior balconies to the floor of the Great Hall to see what would happen.

# 77

Rudger was concerned. The grounds were oddly quiet. The army of Ardoon servants who had earlier been running back and forth between the assorted vehicles and the hotel had evaporated. All of the Lilitu's guests remained in the building, presumably gathered in the Great Hall. The grounds, like the hotel, were lit up like a Christmas tree by the exterior lights.

Altos and Torbitz, his spies within the building, had yet to signal that the guests and principles were present in the Great Hall. Lord Moros had made clear to the colonel that everyone should be captured at once so that none of the leaders of the treasonous gathering could escape. The building was huge, and the grounds vast. If the attack commenced while one of the principles was outside the Great Hall, there was a chance that he and his Peth would never find them.

The prone man cursed as a cold stream of rainwater found its way into his pants and slowly trickled down his leg. It was nearing, dusk but the angry, thundering clouds above had long ago blotted out the sun. The rain seemed to have no end.

Still, he had been in far worse environments, and it was only three minutes before the attack was to commence. Rudger could feel his adrenaline surging. True, this was not exactly like rushing into battle against a well-armed foe, but he and his troops _were_ going to make history tonight. This attack against the whore was - at least in his mind - the beginning of the end.

Yesterday the leaders of the three rebellious Houses had been captured, executed and replaced with puppets who obeyed the Seven unquestioningly. The only holdout was the daughter of Sargon and her reckless, delusional allies. While she was hardly a kingdom unto herself, she remained a wildcard and a thorn in the Seven's side. When he had completed his mission tonight, he would be remembered as the hero who had finally crushed the House of Sargon.

Would the Seven reward him with a title? _Lord_ Rudger? Or Duke? Surely, he would merit some reward beyond a few slaves or consorts. Perhaps a nice patch of land to administer somewhere near the ocean?

With visions of sandy beaches swimming in his head, the Peth moved his pistol into the air and prepared to fire the shot that would signal the start of the attack. At that moment, the front doors of the Great Hall opened. Through the downpour, he could see a man peeking around the door closest to him.

"Who is that?" he grumbled to his second-in-command, Major Unther, Nizrok's man.

The officer raised his binoculars. "That's Altos!"

"Finally! What is he signaling?"

"Nothing yet, Colonel."

Rudger cursed. "That idiot! Could he be any more conspicuous?"

Unther said, "Why does he keep bobbing his head so? Wait! There's Torbitz!"

Frustrated, Rudger said, "What do they think they are doing?" He raised his binoculars and saw the heads of both men peeking around the door. He immediately knew something was wrong.

"Their eyes," he said, but the other man already saw it.

Altos and Torbitz had no eyes.

As the two soldiers watched in astonishment, the heads of both spies shot ten feet into the air. Then the poles the heads were staked on emerged from behind the door carried by a woman in a scarlet dress. Seemingly without a care in the world, she carried them to a large planter that contained a dying plant. Looking up, she manipulated the poles so that the heads of the two men collided, face to face, their lips touching. A kiss of death.

Drenched but laughing, the woman did it again before throwing one of the poles unceremoniously to the ground and thrusting the bottom of the other into the soft soil of the planter. That done, she lifted the other pole and repeated the exercise, ensuring that the two poles crossed and were oriented so that the eyeless, slack faces atop them faced the hills where the attackers were concealed.

"Fiela," said Rudger as the girl went back inside, closing the doors behind her.

" _Edimmu_ ," said the other man.

Rudger recovered, saying, "Altos and Torbitz were sloppy and got caught. It doesn't matter."

"It will be bad for morale."

"It doesn't matter," reiterated the Peth, knowing the man was right. "It is an easy mission. Let's get on with it."

He raised his pistol and fired into the air.

* * *

Lilian and Fiela heard the gunshot.

"Sister, why didn't you tell me of this attack?" asked Fiela, using a tablecloth to wipe blood and rain from her arms and hands. She stood very close to Lilian in the Great Hall, out of earshot of those in the balconies overhead.

"It is not your battle. You and I are bystanders."

"I do not understand. Surely Lords Moros and Nizrok have sufficient men to overwhelm us. The doors will not hold."

"We have allies."

"Where? No helicopters can fly in this weather."

"Even so."

Fiela was suddenly hopeful. "Sister, you have predicted this. Have you hidden away Uncle and our husband to keep them safe?"

"Do you really think that either would hide and leave you and me to fend for ourselves?"

"No," admitted Fiela. "They cannot have been captured, either. Surely if Seven had them, they would have been used against us by now."

"True," said the Lilian, hoping the girl was right and that neither of the men would be led to Steepleguard's entrance in chains to compel her to open the doors.

Would she, she wondered?

* * *

The troops rushed down from the seven hills surrounding Steepleguard, rifles to their shoulders. All was silent except for the sounds of the rain and boots sloshing through puddles of mud. Not a single shot was fired. Lord Moros had been wise, acknowledged Rudger, not to share his plans with anyone other than Lord Nizrok, and to plan the attack "off-script" without the use of the Ardoon. The surprise would have been complete if not for Altos and Torbitz.

He reached the main entrance of Steepleguard with his lead squad and said into his microphone, "All platoons - status."

Each of the platoons called in. Everyone was in position around the building. No shots fired, nothing unusual to report.

The sky flashed white, and a clap of thunder roared at him not a half-second later. Rudger looked up instinctively and was jolted to see the two severed heads above him. They swayed on their poles in all directions like ghastly full-scale bobble head toys. The colonel angrily pulled both poles from the planter and tossed them to the side, watching as one of the heads rolled lazily into a pool of oily water.

Neither he nor any of the troops were using night vision devices. While the hills were dark, dozens of lampposts brightly illuminated the entrance to Steepleguard and the courtyard beyond. Rudger nodded, and a squad leader moved slowly up to the giant doors and pulled gently on both handles. Looking at Rudger, he shook his head and retreated.

Locked. _So much for doing this the easy way_. He made a hand signal, directing that the breach team should prepare to open the door. As they did, he heard a loud electrical crackle overhead.

"Colonel Rudger," came a voice from the sky that made the troops below cringe. The voice was female, but there was a hollow sound to it as it echoed off the hills around them. Only then did the commander remember that the building had a public announcement system and that two of the speakers were directly overhead.

The Peth was stunned. It was Lilitu's voice. It had to be. How had she known his name? The men and women around Rudger turned to look at him questioningly. They hadn't prepared for this scenario. Seeking to assure them, he nodded confidently as if he, at least, had expected this possibility.

"Megaphone," he ordered with a snap of his fingers. It took only a few seconds for the instrument to be produced.

"Lilitu of Sargon," he said into the instrument, "this is Colonel Rudger, Peth-Allati of the Seven Houses. By the authority granted me by the Delphic Order of the Nisirtu, I command you to open these doors and surrender. If you do so, you have my word that neither you nor your guests or family will be harmed."

This demand was greeted by silence, except for the sound of the rain slapping the earth.

Then the woman's voice returned, saying, "The nobles present will require more than that to turn themselves over to you."

Rudger said, "Nobles will be allowed to petition for immediate parole and will not be taken prisoner." He was required to say this but knew she wouldn't believe him. It was an obvious lie.

The electronic voice replied, "The nobles will not negotiate with a member of the warrior class."

"There are no mediators, Lilitu of Sargon," Rudger said, "but I assure you that nobles will not be harmed if you surrender peacefully."

Several minutes passed. He allowed the aristocrats inside the building to confer, as their type was prone to do. The colonel despised this aspect of the operation because it presented him with an uncontrollable variable. He was ordered to capture Lilitu and her associates alive, but if they were to fire at him or his troops he would have to fire back, and Lilitu might be killed. Alternatively, Sargon's daughter might elect to kill herself. In either event, his mission would be a failure.

"I demand a response," he yelled, forgetting the megaphone.

The speakers crackled back to life. "There is one here who we will allow to represent us."

_At last._ "Name the person!"

"Lord Disparthian."

The man wondered if his expression was as comical as that of the Peth around him. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Rudger said, "Lord Disparthian is not present."

"Is he not?" challenged Lilitu.

Rudger lowered the megaphone. "Enough of this," he said to the breach team. Get these doors open."

That was when the first shot was fired, and the Peth to Rudger's left fell to the ground.

# 78

Ben slept on the snowy plain.

He'd watched the murder of the world in a way that only the scripts allowed. Billions of people were fated to die. Soon. He knew that there was no way to prevent it. It had already started, and nothing that had begun could be undone.

How long ago was that? How long had he wept and screamed and pummeled his fist into the snow-covered ground?

He didn't know. There was no way of measuring time in the world of the snowy plain. The sky never changed. Ben had no physical needs, aside from sleep, and he wasn't sure what that was necessary. The face of his watch, which was not, after all, a real watch, had no dials or numbers.

He'd tried to walk but found he did not move. He'd made ten thousand steps only to discover that he left behind no footprints and that his surroundings never changed. The land around him was always the same, as was the sky. White and gray, gray and white, forever.

He thought he'd been here for months, at least. Not that such measurements meant anything in this ethereal world.

He'd almost gone insane, knowing what was surely already happening to his world, yet being unable to do anything about it. He was utterly impotent. He was a man trapped in a dream world with a body that was trapped in a cave beneath a building that was isolated from an unsuspecting and dying world.

But what would he do even in the real world? Call the police? Get the President on the phone? Send out a tweet?

No. Even given months, there was no way he could ever make anyone believe him - or at least no one who had the power to do anything about the apocalypse script. He had, assuming time was standing still in the real world, perhaps a day.

He'd once - weeks ago? - considered compelling Ridley to write a script to stop the apocalypse - if ever he returned to the real world - but, why would the scribe obey him? Ridley was the author of the apocalypse script, after all. Why would he undo his own work?

Even if the scribe was willing to obey a command by Ben to write a new script, Ben couldn't imagine any script was capable, in hours, of undoing what the long-running apocalypse script had set in motion over several years.

No. The world was dying. There was nothing to stop that. All he could do was to save as many people as possible.

But he didn't know how to do that, either.

* * *

A year passed.

He had long ago decided that he was insane, or in a coma, or dead. He wasn't even sure if his voyage to Steepleguard had been real. Maybe he was still lying on the side of a bombed-out truck in Afghanistan. Maybe he was a prisoner of the Taliban. Maybe the snowy plain was a defense mechanism his brain had devised to save him from the horrors of the outside world. Was something terrible happening to his real body? Was he being tortured?

If so, the snowy plain was a godsend. A maddening, never-changing, eternal godsend.

He'd spent a lot of time thinking about Fiela. He'd decided that she was _not_ real. She was too...perfect. Beautiful, loyal, funny in an unintentional way, athletic, and...

She'd loved him, right? He thought so. He couldn't be sure. Had he loved her?

He didn't know. He did now, though.

Not that it mattered. She was a figment of his imagination. A beautiful, violet-eyed illusion.

* * *

It was during the third year - the year of madness - that he stumbled upon the tablets. He walked a lot that year, though he never went anywhere. This made it all the more surprising when, returning his right foot to the very place it had come from, he stubbed his toe on something.

Kneeling and brushing the snow aside, he found one of the Tiwanaku tablets. He moved aside more snow and found another.

Then another.

They were all there, with their beautiful dancing lines of color swirling and twisting and leaping over one another. Red and blue and green and yellow and...

_Pain._

For the first time in years, he felt pain. His head was suddenly throbbing. It felt as if someone had stuffed a balloon into his brain and was slowly inflating it. It grew and grew until it reached the inner walls of his skull, and then it kept growing. It felt as if the balloon was going to crack his skull open.

He put his hands to his head and moaned.

Then, he screamed.

He wanted to die.

But there was no death in the snowy plain.

# 79

The semi-trailers painted with an _"Esotopia Bridal Traditions"_ logo, flowers and candles had been parked at Steepleguard for almost two days. Though the trailers had chemical toilets and were well equipped and reasonably comfortable for ad-hoc troop carriers, the 6th Peth-Allati soldiers inside them were eager to charge into the fray the moment their platoon leaders opened the doors.

Disparthian stood at the rear of one of the trailers, his ear to the large metal doors and a hand up to caution his troops to remain silent. While he, like his personal guards, wore high tech body armor, he also wore a ceremonial silver breastplate engraved with swirls of calligraphic cuneiform. Only Lords of the Peth were allowed such vanities, and the devices were only to be worn on momentous occasions. In his opinion, this was one.

The trailers had been positioned as close to Steepleguard's entrance as the ruse would allow - a mere thirty yards from the main doors of the hotel. This meant Disparthian's fifty-nine guards would be almost immediately in harm's way - as would their opponents - when the trailers' doors were finally opened.

The moment Disparthian heard his name dropped by Lilian, he signaled two men to open the doors, and the 6th Peth Guards spilled out. The first squad immediately fell to the muddy ground and began firing at targets of opportunity. _Pop! Pop! Pop!_

As the surprised shock troops realized they were being ambushed and started firing back, the sound of intermittent shots became a roar. _Popopopopop! Popopopop!_ _Popopopopopopopopop!_ The courtyard was suddenly alive with the muzzle flashes and sight lasers whipping across the ground in search of prey.

Disparthian turned to the Peth now pouring out of the second trailer. "First platoon, clear the hills. Everyone else, follow me to the entrance!" A bullet whizzed by his ear and punctured a wall inside the trailer. He resisted the impulse to flinch, instead yelling, "Careful, gentlemen! Unlike me, you are not bulletproof!"

His guards laughed and raised their carbines to their shoulders. Disparthian lifted his automatic pistol to his own, turned, and sprinted forward.

* * *

Rudger and the squad with him went prone and sought concealment behind nearby columns and bushes. While they had not fought together as a unit, they were superbly disciplined and trained as individual soldiers. There was no panic and no unnecessary bursts of fire. The Peth chose their targets and pulled their triggers back calmly.

The assault was vicious, but Rudger was surprised at the small size of Lilitu's force. Surely it was not more than sixty Peth, far too few to overwhelm a defending force of twice that number. He had spotted Lord Disparthian, the darling of the Seven and now a traitor, standing upright and pointing out targets to his troops as if he were an immortal, and damned if not every bullet fired at the man seemed to change trajectory in mid-flight. His appearance was cause for some concern, as he was reputed to be a courageous and inspiring leader, and thus a force multiplier. Yet one man alone could not turn this battle.

"Ready to advance," Rudger yelled. "Bring the other squads around and flank Disparthian's men!"

He did not see the doors to three other trailers fly open.

* * *

Sibelius was the Maqtu in charge of supporting Disparthian's troops. A ten-year veteran of the Nisirtu's civil war, he was a man of average height but exceptional girth and sported a bushy red beard. He was affectionately called _Big Dwarf._

The deal he had brokered with Disparthian required that the lord's troops spearhead the attack against the forces of Moros and Nizrok. Sibelius had told Disparthian that, after ten years of war, the Maqtu were not about to go up against the soldiers of two Houses while the soldiers of another were at their back. Disparthian had reluctantly agreed to the plan.

"Come on, you sissies!" the rebel screamed in a baritone voice as the trailer doors opened and the Maqtu poured out. "First platoon to the east, second platoon to the west. Third and Fourth platoons, you greasy bastards follow me!"

Sibelius wielded an automatic shotgun. He could see the valiant but foolish Lord Disparthian in his ceremonial armor ahead, his men circled around him, and Rudger's men circled around them.

The Peth lord had advanced to within twenty feet of Steepleguard's entrance, a praiseworthy feat, but there the enemy had swallowed him up. Rudger had summoned his troops from the east and west sides of the building and his skirmishers to pinch Disparthian's forces. Lilitu's covert allies were now taking fire from three sides. Though they fought bravely, Sibelius knew they would not survive much longer without help.

_Which was as it should be_ , he thought with a grin.

# 80

When Rudger saw the Maqtu, he knew that the tables had turned against him. By his estimation, the opposing force now numbered almost two hundred. He screamed over his shoulder, "Damn it, get those doors open! We need hostages, and we need them now!"

"They're reinforced, Colonel," said the woman at the door over her shoulder, who had been trying to manipulate the lock mechanism, "and the hardware is military grade. We'll have to set charges. There might be causalities inside if we do." No one on the breach team was trained for what they were doing. They were guards, not combat engineers.

"Do it already!"

* * *

Fiela heard Rudger's orders through the doors.

"Princess," she said, "you must seek safety in the cave. The doors will be blown open."

She checked the magazine in one of her two pistols. The Peth had retrieved her combat armor and weapons after the first shots were fired. The uniform was different than the standard-issue in that it was not black but sable with black tiger stripes - a secret gift from her uncle many years ago. She had put her red hair up in a simple ponytail. A Nocte Sicarius never wore a helmet.

"They will not harm us," Lilian said. "I have seen their orders."

"How?" asked Fiela, holstering the pistol.

"Lord Disparthian's spies shared them with me. He is our ally – he, and the Maqtu. I will be no better off in the cave if the forces of the Seven somehow defeat them. It does not matter where I am captured, if that is my fate."

"Princess," said Fiela, "a bullet obeys no orders. You could easily be dispatched by an errant shot."

The other woman said nothing as she weighed the Peth's words. The fact was that she had not expected Moros's troops to enter Steepleguard and had made no provisions for that possibility. She had envisioned the battle differently when discussing it with Disparthian.

"I do not wish to hide," she said cautiously.

"Sister," said the Peth, "you will not be hiding. You can return swiftly once the battle is over, either to enjoy your triumph, or to surrender yourself. But you must not die _by mistake_."

Lilian thought for a moment and nodded. "I shall do as you ask." An awkward second passed. "You must come with me, Fiela. You are serretu and second to the queen's throne."

Fiela shook her head. "Our guests above - who will protect them, if not me? There is no time to usher them into the cave. We have but minutes."

Lilian thought to command the Peth to come with her but having already been proven wrong about the impossibility that the doors could be breached, she doubted her own judgment on this matter, also.

"Very well," she said. "I am proud of you, Sister. Ben would be, also."

Fiela smiled sadly. "Do you think," she said, wondering if she had asked the question before, "that the Seven will allow him to live if they have captured him?"

Lilian decided she deserved the truth. "No. They have orders to kill him."

The Peth did not react and indeed, seemed not to hear the other woman. She rotated a leather belt around her waist to better position four sheathed knives and said, "On the wall next to the stairwell leading down to the cave, there is an electrical panel. Will you turn off the lights so that I am in my element?"

Lilian nodded and disappeared into the corridor. A moment later, the hotel and the grounds beyond were plunged into darkness. The cacophony of gunfire beyond the walls was muted for a few seconds as the combatants took in this development, but then the pace picked up again, and the battle raged on.

Alone, Fiela walked toward the main doors and placed herself only twenty feet from them, deciding that against a large number of opponents she would rather fight in close quarters with her knives. She'd never win a gunfight.

Not that she expected to win _any_ engagement. Knowing that Lilitu's allies had arrived and were closing in on the Peth trying to enter Steepleguard, she needed only to delay the attackers once they entered the building to give those allies sufficient time to come to the guests' rescue. It was a holding action, pure and simple.

When she found her spot, she turned her back to the door, lay flat on the ground, and closed her eyes. She did not want the inevitable explosion to ruin her night vision.

Her husband was dead, she decided. He would not have abandoned her, and Lilian, and was not being used as a hostage. Ben was dead, and in the Nisirtu underworld, for that is where all Nisirtu royalty went. He was there, and alone, because he had no Nisirtu family to greet him, which meant he might wander the dark corridors forever.

She had failed him, as both his protector and wife.

Lightning from the storm flooded the room with a blue light. She listened to the yells and screams and gunfire outside the building's walls.

To clear her mind for the battle ahead, she whispered a poem to herself.

_"For the sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast, and the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest, though the night was made for loving, and the day returns too soon, yet we'll go no more a roving-"_

The doors to Steepleguard exploded inward with a roar.

# 81

Rudger and three Peth rushed into the Great Hall, rifles and carbines raised, but they slowed when they discovered it was as dark inside as it had been outside. With their numbers dwindling and the enemy at their back, the ingress had been hasty and disorganized, and the lack of any indoor lighting was yet another unexpected obstacle. Rudger led the way, determined to find a decent hostage. Preferably Lilitu, though any noble would do.

"Lights!" he screamed.

A second later, the reply: "No joy."

_Damn it!_ He raised his carbine's night-vision scope to his eye and scanned the room. The large hall appeared to be empty. He calculated that his troops could hold the building for five minutes. That was just enough time for those with him to reach the rooms on the second level, where surely some of the nobles were hiding.

"Follow me," he said, and took a step toward the nearest staircase, but the moment his trailing foot left the floor, he felt his other kicked out from under him. He was still floating in the air when the knife entered his neck.

The Peth behind him stumbled as he collided with Rudger's falling body. Before he could right, himself something grabbed his helmet and pulled hard, forcing the fall he had been trying to avoid. The man felt something cold at the base of his neck and then felt nothing at all.

"Commander!" yelled one of the men who had just entered the hall. He went down, too, and was silent.

Another four of Rudger's soldiers entered the Great Hall, but instead of fanning out they found themselves corralled by the attackers behind them, the nothingness before them, the bodies collecting at their feet, and the enemy that lurked below. Their night-vision scopes were useless in such close quarters.

" _Ahhh!_ " screamed one of the female attackers as she was dragged to the floor like a swimmer pulled beneath the waves by an invisible shark. A nearby Peth shot at where she had been, but the round struck the shinbone of the man who had been behind her. The wounded man screamed bloody murder and fell to the floor of his own accord. There he listened to the fallen woman's gurgles as she drowned in her blood.

" _Nocte Sicarius!_ " yelled a man in the front but then a bullet entered his skull from beneath his chin, shattering a number of teeth before taking the scenic route through his brain and exiting out the back.

The remaining Peth let their carbines and rifles fall to their sides and pulled out their pistols, aiming at the floor, site lasers glowing red.

* * *

Disparthian cursed the Maqtu even as he gave thanks for their appearance. They had arrived at the last possible moment. Only two men out of his assault platoon still stood at his side. The rest were injured or dead. A dozen could have been saved if Sibelius, the Maqtu leader, had attacked only a thirty seconds earlier.

Still, the Maqtu _had_ arrived, and Colonel Rudger's troops were being pushed away from the hotel, with the exception of the squad that had breached the main doors and entered Steepleguard. Thankfully, someone had shut off the property's lights and slowed the assaulting force's advance. Fiela, he assumed.

The battle could be lost yet if Rudger's troops were to capture Lilitu or Fiela. As the battle devolved into hand-to-hand combat near the entrance, he summoned his two remaining Peth to his side and made a final push.

* * *

Fiela surveyed the arena as the man with the wounded shin flailed futilely in her chokehold. She was certain that four of the Peth still standing were Rudger's, but the situation was growing increasingly chaotic. She could hear Lord Disparthian's yells near the doors urging his troops forward, and she was not sure if the troops now entering Steepleguard were friend or foe. Even the Peth above her didn't seem to know.

She decided to go vertical when the pistols came out. She rolled to a position behind the nearest enemy, stood, and plunged a knife between his helmet and body armor, severing his spinal column. She started a leg-spin as the man fell and passed a knee a half-inch above his head before slamming a boot into the nose of another Peth who had turned toward her.

That left two. Both saw her at the same time as a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room. The first, who was two arm lengths away, brought up her pistol too quickly and rushed her trigger pull, sending a round over Fiela's shoulder. Fiela closed and felt a second shot tear into her hip. Ignoring the pain, she grabbed the other woman's gun and twisted it violently, breaking the woman's finger. The movement forced the trigger back, sending the third round into the intruder's head.

One left.

_All done, then_ , she told herself.

Except the last thing.

"I will find you," she said in a hushed tone.

Time slowed for Fiela as she dropped her hands to her sides and became a spectator to the battle in the doorway. There was Disparthian, whom Lilian had once called 'Lancelot,' rushing forward with two other men, and behind him, a horde of Maqtu, Sibelius at the front. The battle was won.

She lowered her eyes to the man in front of her - Rudger's last man. Extending her head forward and stretching her arms out behind her, she took a step toward him and screamed.

The ear-piercing and alien shriek shook the man, and when lightning again illuminated the room, he saw the thing coming at him from the shadows. Whimpering for the first time in his adult life, he raised his pistol and pulled the trigger five times. The thing fell to the floor.

He knew the use of a flashlight would be a death sentence, but he didn't care. He shakily pulled the device from a strap on his shoulder and flipped it on with his free hand. Looking down, he saw the faint silhouette of a girl's body. _A girl?_ His hands trembling, he struggled to reconcile what he thought he had shot at and the figure at his feet. The thing he had shot at had not been a girl, had it?

_Gods, no!_ It was something else. Something abominable. It was-

A Maqtu bullet ended the Peth's life before he could finish the thought.

# 82

No prisoners were taken. All of Lords Moros's and Nizrok's Peth were killed. When the gunfire ceased, the lights miraculously came back on. Lilian strode into the Great Hall. Dozens of bodies littered the floor, some in heaps. She saw Disparthian, bloodied but alive, striding toward her.

"Annasa," he said, "the battle is won."

Lilian nodded, having assumed as much when she saw the handsome man standing in the middle of the room with two of his lieutenants. Only _two?_ Had the battle been that close?

"I have no words," she said, taking his gloved hands in hers. "You have preserved the true Nisirtu."

"The Maqtu helped," Disparthian said, nodding toward Sibelius, who was meeting with a group of his men in the corner of the room. "Eventually."

"They will be properly rewarded." Her smile faltered. "But where is my sister?"

Disparthian looked around the room. "I saw her just before I entered. She single-handedly stopped the advance of Colonel Rudger's troops. Perhaps she pursued Peth trying to flee. Where is the nearest other exit?"

Lilian nodded toward a nearby corridor. "That will take you to a patio."

"I will go and look for her. I have a platoon in the tree line hunting down snipers and support units. She may have joined them. Stay here with my men until I return."

When he had left, one of Disparthian's men, a Lieutenant Kelliti, ordered the Maqtu to begin removing bodies from the room. Anyone still breathing was to be killed.

Only a few minutes into the process, he yelled, "Wait!"

"What is it?" asked Lilian.

"There," he said, pointing at the body of a man whose head was partially missing. Beneath him, Fiela's red hair could be seen.

"No!" screamed Lilian, running to the bodies. Kelliti arrived with her and roughly picked up the corpse of the man and threw it to the side, revealing Fiela, white as a ghost and still. There was a small hole in her chest and a pool of blood under her. Kelliti knelt and touched the wound.

"Where is her armor?" he asked, bewildered.

"What?" replied Lilian.

The Peth, amazed, said, "She removed her armor plates...why would she do that?"

Lilian thought the question pointless. "A doctor!" she yelled at the guests who had emerged from their rooms and stood on the balconies looking down at the carnage. "Send down one of the doctors! My sister is wounded!"

Turning to the lieutenant, she said, "There are medical supplies in the basement. Bring Disparthian's other man, and I'll show you." Lilian leaped to her feet and moved toward the corridor that led to the cave's entrance. To her surprise, two Maqtu who were standing there failed to make way.

"Move!" she screamed angrily, slamming her fists into them, but they did not.

"Move, damn you!" she screamed again.

"Do as she commands," said Kelliti, clearly annoyed at the Maqtus' reaction. Disparthian's other guard regarded the rebels warily.

"Sorry, sir, but you're not in command," said Sibelius, approaching the Peth. "Neither is your master. Never was, really." Before Kelliti could react, the rebel shot the Nisirtu lieutenant in the throat.

Additional shots rang out as the lieutenant fell slowly to one knee. Disparthian's other man crumpled to the ground.

Another Maqtu, this one named Fiscus, stepped forward and shot the Kelliti in the good leg that supported his weight. Kelliti swayed for a moment, and then, with a tremendous effort and a scream of pain, he lunged at the man who had just shot him, wrapping his arms around Fiscus's legs. The Maqtu fell with a shout as the Peth tackled him.

There were two more gunshots. Kelliti stopped moving.

"Hard to kill," said the rebel who fired the last shot.

"Get up, Fiscus," said the other man. The Maqtu on the ground beneath Kelliti didn't move. Someone reached down and rolled the Peth's body off the crumpled man. Only then did they see the silver handle of the dagger Disparthian's man had shoved between his attacker's ribs.

"I'll be damned. Nicely done, Lieutenant Kelliti. You died nobly. I shall name a child after you."

The other man spat on the corpse of the Maqtu. "And you, Fiscus? You died like you lived. _Stupidly!_ "

"Who are you men to speak of nobility?" yelled Lilian, who had fallen to her knees, the bodies of Kelliti and Fiela on the ground before her. "You know nothing of it."

"Ha!" yelled the Sibelius. "The whore speaks of nobility! You," he said, pointing at one of the other Maqtu, "get troops up to the balconies. We're sitting ducks here. I want a guard on each level. If anyone steps out of their room, warn them back, and if they refuse, shoot them! You," he said to a nearby rebel, "Gather your platoon and go find Disparthian and his remaining men. Kill them."

The female bowed slightly and was gone.

Lilian tried to crawl to Fiela, but the Maqtu blocked her. Blood was everywhere on the floor, and one of her hands slipped out from under her causing her to slam her head into one of the men's knees.

"Careful, whore. We need you intact for the evening's festivities."

Lilian, seeing she would not be allowed to pass, tried to stand, but was shoved back down. "Stay on your knees. It is your proper place."

The other men laughed, and someone kicked her from behind, sending her splaying to the floor. Covered in the blood of her enemies and allies, the woman rolled over and looked up. Mercifully, there were no gawkers in the balconies. The guests were afraid or perhaps unwilling to witness her humiliation.

"What about the girl?" said one of the Maqtu. He was standing over Fiela. "Shouldn't we have one of the doctors tend to her?"

Sibelius looked at the girl and rubbed his jaws. The blood on the floor beneath Fiela spread out like wings. "No," he said at last. "It couldn't be helped. The lights were out and no one could see anyone. She got in the way. By the time we found her, she was dead."

The other two men swapped uneasy glances. "She might be saved. Lord Moros will be displeased. She was to be given to him."

"Lord Moros?" gasped Lilian.

Sibelius ignored her. "Move the Edimmu to the side of the platform and throw a tablecloth over her. It will be better if she dies this day. I do not wish to find her in my bedroom one morning pointing at me with her damned knives when she is supposed to be asleep at Moros's side."

Two Maqtu grabbed Fiela's arms and complied. As they did so, a man next to Sibelius said, "This is a dangerous game."

"Yes, but that girl _does not die!_ " seethed Sibelius. Grunting and leaning in toward the other man, he said conspiratorially, "She might even turn Lord Moros against us. I do not wish to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder."

"Moros?" said Lilian again.

"Yes, dear?" came a voice at the other end of the Great Hall.

# 83

Moros spun and yelled, "All of you hiding in your rooms! Hear me! Lilitu is fallen. I am the master of Steepleguard now. If you will serve me, come to the Great Hall and kneel before me. If you would die for the whore, remain where you are. We shall attend to you shortly."

In a muted voice he said to Sibelius, "Wait fifteen minutes and then shoot anyone who has accepted my invitation. The scoundrels who surrender now will serve any master and are useless to me."

"It shall be done, Lord," replied the bearded man. He walked toward his lieutenants to relay the command.

"Maqtu!" he yelled at a man near one of the great fireplaces.

"Yes, Lord?"

"That chair there!" Moros pointed at a large and fancifully carved teak chair with a red velvet seat in one corner of the room. "Bring it here, to this platform."

"Your throne," observed Lilian hoarsely.

"No, my dear. _Yours._ For a short time, anyway. I have even brought you a crown."

He snapped his fingers. One of the Maqtu stepped forward, a cardboard shoebox in his hands. Moros flipped off the top and withdrew a cheap plastic tiara, the kind a child would wear for Halloween. Affixed to the front were large plastic letters that formed the word "WHORE".

"This," he said, "is what little girls who fancy themselves princesses are supposed to wear. You probably already have one?"

In the deepest recesses of her mind, Lilian screamed.

Moros smirked. "This will be the one you wear tonight when you entertain my men." He stepped forward and slapped Lilian with such force that she nearly blacked out. Her world went hazy.

"A taste of things to come," he said.

The woman tried to respond, but when she opened her mouth, blood poured out. She could feel one of her back teeth wiggling when she moved her jaw.

"Alas, work before pleasure," said Moros, turning away.

Lilian, blood dripping from her lips, managed, "Puppies to torture?"

The Peth stopped, sighed and turned back toward her. "No, Lilitu, I have _people_ to torture."

"You're a freak Moros. You always were."

Looking amused, the Peth lord said, "That's rather hypocritical of you, Lilitu. You torture freely."

"To achieve my ends. Not for pleasure."

Moros sneered at her. "Really? Is that what you tell yourself? But look, this is pointless. I must find your dear sister, Fiela. She and I are going to have a...conversation."

"Too late," Lilian said with a sickly grin.

The Peth's eyes narrowed. He took a step toward her. "What do you mean?"

"Your vanity has been your undoing, Moros. You've given her too much time."

"Too much time for what? Escape?"

"Fiela would never flee from a fight. You know that."

He did, actually. "What, then? Time for what?"

Lilian's laugh was a wet, sickly gurgle. "Time to bleed out!"

Moros became very still. "What do you mean?"

"You can't have it all, Moros!" Lilian laughed, globs of blood flying from her mouth and splattering the man's face. "The thing you want most? My sister? I, Lilitu of Sargon, deny it!"

The Peth glowered at the Maqtu holding Lilian and at the others who stood in a circle around them. "What is she saying?"

"They killed her," she whispered loudly, nodding in the direction of Sibelius, who was just returning from briefing his lieutenants.

Moros marched toward the man. "Where is Fiela?" he yelled.

Sibelius didn't waiver. "Dead."

The Peth lord's eyes went wide. "Dead? How? I ordered you to capture her alive! She is _mine_!"

"The lights were out," Lilian said huskily, taking on the man's voice. Moros looked back at her as she continued. "That's what we'll tell him. It was unavoidable. We couldn't even see her. She might turn Lord Moros against us. I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder!"

Moros looked back at Sibelius and saw the truth in the man's face. Without hesitation, the Moros pulled his pistol from its holster and shot the man in the forehead. The rebel fell to the ground in a heap.

" _WHERE IS SHE?!_ " Moros screamed, spinning in a circle. When there were no replies, he shot two other Maqtu who were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. As they, too, dropped, other Maqtu rushed to the side of the stage where Fiela had been stowed away.

"Here, Lord!" the one nearest the girl yelled, removing the tablecloth that covered her and backing away quickly.

Moros strode to the corner of the platform but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the whiteness of Fiela's face. "Where are the doctors?" he said to the nearest men.

Behind him someone said meekly, "I'm a doctor, Lord."

Moros twisted and saw that one of the surrendered guests had a shaky hand in the air. A man in a tuxedo, perhaps thirty years old, with greased blond hair.

"Get over here!"

The man nodded nervously and was lifted to his feet by two Maqtu before he'd had an opportunity to stand on his own. They shoved him forward. "Go!"

As the guest stumbled over the collected bodies, Moros yelled, "Find the medical supplies! Bring them here!" and a dozen troops disbursed at a sprint into the various corridors.

A shot rang out from a balcony above. Everyone in the room cringed and looked up. Everyone except Moros, who was staring at the hole in the wooden platform that had suddenly appeared an inch from Fiela's upturned face.

"There!" shouted one of the Maqtu, pointed upwards.

Three stories above, Lord Shadernum, the Old Bear, pointed a revolver and fired again, this time striking the doctor who was trying to make his way toward Fiela. The man's head exploded.

"You'll not take her alive!" yelled King Sargon's former guard.

"Take me!" screamed Lilian. "Old Bear, kill me!"

But the former bodyguard could not. A spray of bullets from the men below tore his body to pieces and he fell to the balcony's floor.

Moros knelt over Fiela's body, trembling. Was he to be denied this, the one thing promised him? The only thing he had ever really wanted? She couldn't die, could she? Not now! _Not ever!_ _She's the Edimmu! The underworld won't have her!_

For the briefest of moments, the corners of the girl's mouth appeared to twitch upwards in a smile, as if to mock him one last time.

"Bitch!" He screamed, pounding a fist into the floor.

Lilian laughed hysterically.

"Guards!" Moros screamed, rising, "Seize the whore and tie her face down to her throne! Strip her!"

He fumbled with the large metal buckle of his belt, so furious that he could hardly control his hands. "I will thrash you until the skin rolls off your back! I will pull out your fingernails and blind you with my thumbs. You beg for death now? You cannot imagine how sweet a gift it will be! What I would have done to Fiela I will do ten-fold to you."

Lilian finally stopped laughing. It was done. She had enjoyed her final victory. She didn't resist when the men came to drag her to the makeshift throne. She could see Moros walking toward her, his long, studded belt in one hand, his face as red as a cinder. Still on her knees, she felt her hands being tied to the arms of the chair. Then she felt the men's fingers on her dress, and the tug, and it was gone.

Moros moved behind her, lashing the air with his belt experimentally. One of the surrendered guests, a beautiful woman named Persipia, began to cry.

"Behold your queen," he shouted back at the woman, and raised his belt high into the air.

# 84

Ben slowly rose from the floor, unsure which way was up. When he finally got his bearings, he gripped the edge of the table behind him and pulled and pushed until he was upright.

How long had he been gone?

No, he realized, he hadn't been gone. He'd just been unconscious. He'd been trapped in a dream.

But unlike most dreams, he remembered every detail of the one he'd just awoken from. How was that possible?

There was no time to ponder that. He felt a sudden sense of urgency now that he was again in the real, material world.

He struggled to push back the seemingly infinite number of thoughts that were swirling in his mind. Alien visions swarmed restively between his conscious and subconscious, and he knew instinctively that if he failed to contain them, and they flooded into his conscious mind, he would again lose his grip on reality.

It wasn't easy resisting their call. It was like looking at a painting and trying to see only the strokes of paint and not the subject, or staring at an image on a monitor and trying to see only a collection of pixels and not the image they formed. For almost anyone else it would have been impossible. It was only an accident of nature, he knew, that allowed his brain to deconstruct the whole for his protection. It was, he thought, the very trait that allowed him to comprehend the language of the tablets.

He checked his watch and saw that it was after nine o'clock in the evening, but the day, thankfully, was unchanged. He walked stiltedly across the cavern's metal grates and up the spiral staircase to the hotel.

Ben increased his pace as he ascended the stairs. Pushing the door at the top open, he slid into the corridor and trotted toward the Great Hall, looking into each room he passed, but seeing no one. Steepleguard was deathly quiet except for the faraway voice of a man delivering some kind of speech.

That was to be expected, right? _It's probably one of Lilian's supporters waxing poetic about the woman and her family._ Then he smelled the spent gunpowder and heard Lilian's voice and he knew from the sound that she was in distress.

Ben picked up speed and took the next corner, the one that led into the kitchen, fast. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw two other men headed his way. Big men who wore body armor and carried guns. Men in tattered and mismatched uniforms.

Nisirtu, yes...but not normal Nisirtu. Something about them was wrong.

They saw him, too, and he heard one of the men say excitedly, "It's the Ardoon king!" in Agati.

In Agati, Ben marveled. I can understand Agati?

The question evaporated when he heard the other Maqtu yell, "Kill him!"

The first soldier raised his rifle. The former Marine jumped to one side, taking cover behind one of the kitchen islands as a tile backsplash behind him exploded.

The island that separated him from the rebels was the portable variety, elevated two inches off the floor by casters. From his prone position, Ben could see the boots of the Maqtu as they walked toward him. Each was approaching from a different side and both were now ten feet away. He noticed potato peels around him and looked up hopefully.

A black handle dangled over the lip of the island's counter. He shot a hand up and grabbed it.

_Oh please oh please oh please don't be a potato peeler._

It was a cleaver.

_Thank you, God!_

The rebels were five feet away now. He pushed the island experimentally. It moved. He crouched directly behind it and counted. One, two, three – _now._

He rolled to his right and blindly swung the cleaver across the floor in front of him even as he kicked his feet out and forced the island to the left. The Maqtu who had been approaching from the left side screamed in pain and fury when the corner of the island rammed his groin. As he did so, the business end of the cleaver sliced into the Achilles tendon of the other man, who screamed far louder and collapsed to the ground.

Without hesitation, Ben jerked the cleaver out and swung at the man's leg again like a lumberjack hacking at a tree. The next swing hit the rebel's femoral artery and a spray of blood showered Ben and everything around him. A third swing exposed the man's intestines, and he was out. The artery continued to pump out showers of blood rhythmically, like Old Faithful with a prostate issue.

Unfortunately, the other rebel had recovered while the linguist was hacking at his comrade. He was now bearing down on Ben, who saw there was no possibility that he could unsling the fallen rebel's weapon in time to use it.

"Wait!" Ben yelled. It was an instinctive command born of desperation; a command meant to buy him a few more seconds so he could develop a plan, however haphazard. It was exactly what any person about to be killed would be expected to say to his executioner.

But in this case, unlike almost any other, it worked. The Maqtu stood above him, rifle to his shoulder, and _waited._

Ben plowed his heels into the floor and pushed. He expected that at any moment the Maqtu would chuckle and finish him.

They didn't.

The researcher rose slowly to his feet and carefully moved the cleaver behind his back. He was mystified as to why he wasn't dead yet and confused at the yelling he heard from down the corridor. Somewhere, he heard a pistol shot, and then two more. Trying to come to grips with the situation, he said, "Whose side are you on?"

The rebel said, "I serve Sibelius."

"I don't know who that is," replied Ben, preparing to hurl the cleaver at the man. "Who does _he_ serve?"

"Lord Moros."

Ben froze. "The Maqtu serve Lord Moros?"

"We do now."

"Where is Lilian?" When the man didn't answer, he ventured, "Lilitu of Sargon?"

"In the Great Hall, bowing before Lord Moros. She's about to get a ripe good beating."

Ben tried to control his shock. "And Fiela? Is she a prisoner, too?"

There was another shot fired somewhere inside Steepleguard, followed by the sound of automatic weapons. Then it was quiet again.

"No," said the man, his finger still on the trigger. "She went down like a trooper, that one. Must've taken out a whole squad by herself."

"She's dead?" Ben growled, moving toward the man. He no longer cared about the gun that was pointed at him.

"Curled up like a kitten next to the stage. She was a pretty thing."

Ben didn't hear the last bit of banter because at that moment the rage was forming inside him - a rage that brushed aside the muddling thoughts of the snowy plain and the confusing events of the past week and his concerns about his future. It was a rage that vaporized every thought in its path and in its wake left only clarity.

The epiphany was complete.

He pushed aside the barrel of the Maqtu's rifle and slammed the blade into the man's shoulder and spoke one word.

An _Empyrean_ word.

Hearing it, without hesitation and with pure joy, the rebel, a cleaver buried in his shoulder, ran past Ben, through the kitchen, through the patio doors, through a gate, and into the courtyard.

There, he put the barrel of his rifle into his mouth and gleefully pulled the trigger.

# 85

Lilian didn't ready herself for the first strike of the belt. She didn't want to resist. She wanted to scream, and Moros wanted her to scream. She put her face into the velvet seat of the chair and simply waited for it.

And waited.

She was mortified at how utterly silent the Great Hall had become. There were no more cries or screams or shouts of bravado from the Maqtu leering at her and cheering Moros on. There was only the sound of the rain and the thunder.

What were they doing, she wondered? Was this some cruel game?

"Strike me, you coward!" she yelled, spitting blood.

"Lilian," came a voice from behind her. It was not Moros's.

"Lilian," said the man, closer. "Where is Fiela?"

_It was Ben!_

"There!" she yelled. "There! Next to the stage." She tried to nod a direction and moaned in frustration when she realized how useless she was tied to the chair.

The man boomed in Agati, "Anyone with medical skills, come to the Great Hall!"

Lilian heard doors above her opening and then hurried footsteps on the stairs.

"You will not let her die," she heard him say to someone.

A moment later, she could feel the man behind her, sensed his strong hands reaching over her shoulders and felt them untying her. When she was unbound, she spun around and fell against the chair. Ben placed a tablecloth over her naked body. She reached out desperately and pulled him to her.

"Ben!" she sobbed. "You're alive!"

He embraced her and said. "I am."

When she released the man, she saw he was soaked in blood. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Never mind that. Who are these men with Moros?"

Trying to collect her wits, Lilian said, "Most are Maqtu who have sworn allegiance to him. Some may be his personal guard, or Lord Nizrok's. They have killed Disparthian's lieutenants and Fiela."

Ben looked into her eyes and said, "Fiela is not dead, Lilian. She is badly wounded but is being taken care of. What about the others?"

Lilian peered around him. Everyone in the Great Hall appeared frozen in place. They breathed, yes, and they blinked, and they swayed, but they did not _move_. Moros stood only a few feet away, one hand in the air, a leather belt dangling limply from it. Dozens of Maqtu stood around the room and stared at her with slack expressions. Perhaps two-dozen guests knelt on the floor.

Was she hallucinating? Was Moros beating her even now? Had she retreated into some kind of fantasy world to escape the horror of it all?

"Lilian, answer me!"

She blinked rapidly and said, "Any on their knees are traitors; guests who were willing to join Moros. Any who are armed are against me. Those in the rooms above are our friends, as is Lord Disparthian and his remaining guards. There are Maqtu looking for them outside." Bewildered, she said, "Mutu, why does no one move? Why are they...why are they _as they are?_ "

"They're doing what they were told to do."

"I do not understand."

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose and after a second said, "You feinted and there was a battle. Disparthian's men have won, Asatu. They are on the balconies above us, their guns pointed at Moros and his soldiers."

The woman looked up at the Maqtu frozen in place on the balconies but saw, instead, Disparthian's men, carbines to their shoulders, aiming at Moros. They appeared jovial and a few gave her a thumbs-up. One yelled down, "The situation is in hand, Annasa!"

Sargon's daughter began to weep. "We have won?"

"We have. Now, stay here and I'll send a doctor to you."

"No," she protested, shaking off his hands. "I need to tend to Fiela."

"No, stay here," he said, but not using those words.

"As you say," Lilian replied, going still.

Ben rose and walked to the physicians tending to Fiela. "What's her condition?" he asked.

The physician with the stethoscope said, "The pulse is fading."

"Move!" yelled Ben, who dropped to his stomach so that he could put his face next to the girl's.

"Peth," he said, "I command you not to die."

There was no response.

"She isn't breathing," said someone behind him.

"She can hear me," said Ben, "I know she can!"

Putting his lips back to the girl's ear he said, "Peth, come back. The underworld does not want you. You are needed here."

The girl did not react.

"Peth" the man said again, knowing his summons would not work. The living cannot command the dead. "Listen to me," he said, and whispered something in her ear while placing the back of his hand against her cheek.

The girl jolted as if struck by lightning. Her eyelids opened a quarter inch as she gasped for air. "Mutu!" she rasped.

"I'm here," Ben said, his voice cracking.

"Here?" Fiela seemed confused.

"I am," he said, squeezing her hand.

The girl's mouth tried to form a smile but failed. Her eyes closed and she was still again.

"She needs a hospital," said one of the doctors.

Ben rose, trying to control his emotions. "There is a medical facility below. You," he said to a woman holding a medical kit, "tend to Annasa Lilitu. The rest of you follow me."

Ben was compelled to de-animate several more Maqtu as he led the confused, impromptu medical team to the cave. Though he was loath to leave Fiela as the physicians began to work on her, he knew he had to return upstairs to ensure no new enemy faces had appeared. He wasn't sure what was going on yet.

_Were there other attackers? Was the hotel full of them?_

None had shown themselves in the Great Hall since he left. Lilian was speaking to a young woman who was cleaning the princess's face with an alcohol wipe. The Maqtu and Moros stood motionless and surrendering guests knelt on the main floor, in a trance.

There was renewed gunfire outside the hotel.

The researcher moved briskly to Lilian and the woman attending her and whispered something to them. Wordlessly, both ran to the corridor that would take them to the cave's infirmary. When they were gone, he walked to the makeshift throne and fell into it, exhausted. He looked about him - at the dozens of Maqtu, at Moros, and at the guests.

He spoke.

Moros swayed dizzily but did not fall. Blinking rapidly, he saw that Lilitu was no longer in front of him. There was, instead, a man - or rather a _giant. A Titan!_ Even sitting in the chair - and how was it that the chair had increased in size to accommodate him? - the creature in the yellow robe towered ten feet above him. No face was visible beneath the monster's hood. There was only blackness and two orbs that shown like stars.

The sharply drawn breaths around him told the Peth lord that he was not the only one to see the monstrosity. His heart racing, Moros realized that he still held his belt in the air, as if he planned to strike the creature before him. He dropped it and stepped back, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the glare of the giant's gaze.

"Nisirtu," the creature said in a thundering voice that made the walls and floors vibrate. "The Sillum sits before you!"

Everyone cowered at the force of the words.

"Moros," boomed the horrible voice, "tell me what has happened here. Everything."

The Peth lord complied without hesitation, his fear mounting as a black fog began to rise from the floor. When he was done, the Sillum growled and surveyed the room.

"Who among you," it boomed in its horrible voice, "have this night pledged yourselves to Lord Moros?"

The guests on the floor of the Great Hall shouted "Me!" or "I have!" for it was not a question that could be answered with a lie or go unanswered.

The giant glared at them. "Rise. Leave this place and descend the mountain on foot until you have reached the great city below. If you survive the descent and the cataclysm to come, you may return and beg the queen's mercy."

Each of the kneeling guests rose without hesitation. As a group, they filed silently past the doors and into the reinvigorated storm, many without shoes and none with coats or umbrellas. One of the guests was Lady Del. Ben guessed the attractive woman next to her was the one known as Persipia.

When they were gone, the giant roared, "You in your rooms who did not abandon Lilian - well done. You shall be rewarded for your loyalty and courage. Remember this..." and here the giant spoke a word, before saying, "Now, go to your beds, and sleep."

The Sillum commanded the Maqtu on the balconies to return to the floor of the Great Hall. When they had gathered there, the monster stood and towered over them. The glowing orbs that were its eyes grew brighter, and brighter, and brighter still, until they were like twin suns. The Great Hall was bleached white by their brilliance. The room began to shake violently.

" _You...._ " growled the Sillum, pointing at Moros and the Maqtu around him. " _Listen closely..._ "

The Sillum spoke, and the fires that would not end sparked to life.

# 86

Disparthian's second platoon, tasked to clear the hills, had been surprised to see Maqtu approaching them. But the rebels were supposed to be their allies and so were allowed to approach the ridgeline unchecked until one of Disparthian's sergeants, a man who fought the Maqtu for years and who still didn't trust them, challenged them. He reminded them gruffly that clearing the ridge was the responsibility of "real Peth" and not "Maqtu mercenaries."

This was not well received by the Maqtu. Already tasked to kill the remaining Peth, they opted to immediately open fire, thus forfeiting the element of surprise that might have ensured their victory over the unsuspecting platoon.

It was a huge tactical blunder. Disparthian's Peth, now knowing the Maqtu's intentions, and being at the top of the ridge, had a decisive advantage as they shot down at them from behind the cover of trees and concealed by darkness. The rebels found themselves lying prone in the mud with no available cover, illuminated by the courtyard lights and trying to fire up and into the rain at Disparthian's nearly invisible troops.

Lord Disparthian had been searching for Fiela some fifty yards away when the first shots were fired. Hearing the gunfire, he moved quickly to assess the situation. Seeing the Maqtu firing up at his platoon, he moved in behind the rebels and began to pick them off one at a time even as his Peth engaged them from above.

The skirmish was brief and decisive. The larger Maqtu force was decimated in quick order. The Peth lord, understanding the implications of the rebel attack, ran back toward the Great Hall while yelling for his guards to follow him. His worst fears seemed confirmed when he heard hellish screams emanating from inside.

* * *

The scene before Disparthian when he entered Steepleguard was surreal. His lieutenants lay lifeless on the floor, Lilitu was gone, and the Maqtu stood in clusters around the room screaming their heads off. It was a hellish chorus. At the far end of the hall, on the stage, was a man fitting the description of Ben Mitchell sitting in a chair in a grimy pair of jeans and a bloody shirt.

Only when the Peth lord approached the stage did he see that Moros was among the people screaming. The scene made no sense. Nothing was being done to the Maqtu or to Moros, yet to hear them he would have sworn that they were being tortured.

"Ben..." began Disparthian, but he reconsidered, and said, "Anax?"

The man in the chair suddenly raised his head and the lord stumbled back, terrified. The thing in front of him had large glowing, yellow orbs where its eyes should have been. It was _not_ Ben Mitchell.

"Who are you?" it said in a gravelly, evil voice.

"I..." said the Peth, continuing to walk backward, a terror gripping his heart like none he had ever experienced, "I am Disparthian."

Immediately, the orbs burned out, and the eyes of a man, a very tired man, appeared in their place.

"Disparthian..." the thing that was again a man said. "I know that name. Lilian told me about you. I'm... _Ben_." The man said his own name as if it was foreign to him.

"Anax Sargon," said Disparthian, daring to step forward. "What is happening here?"

The other man evaluated his surroundings and appeared as surprised as Disparthian. After a moment of thought, he said, "Punishment."

"Punishment for what, Anax?"

Ben spoke a word that conveyed everything he knew to the lord.

"I understand your anger," said Disparthian. "But how long must this go on?"

The man on the stage asked, "How long do you think is sufficient for what they have done to my _family?"_

Disparthian said, "I think they have suffered enough. The proper punishment, the merciful punishment, is execution. Torture is against your nature, Anax. I can see it in your countenance."

Ben mulled that over as he watched Disparthian's Peth arrive through the main doors. Like their commander, each of them stopped abruptly, baffled by the scene before them.

Ben nodded and rose. "Can you and your Peth see to that, then? The executions?"

"Yes, Anax."

The king shuffled to the edge of the stage and almost fell off. Disparthian caught him just before he did and helped him to the floor.

"You must rest," the lord said.

Ben spoke and the screaming stopped. He said to Disparthian, "They will do whatever you tell them." He looked beyond the man, toward his troops, and yelled, "When the executions are complete, you will remember that it was you who corralled Moros's troops and the rebels, that you fought bravely and overcame tremendous odds. You will not remember this conversation or seeing our enemies in this state."

The Empyrean seeds began to germinate in their minds.

As Disparthian and his troops moved back towards the doors, their captives in tow, Ben yelled after them. "Wait! You know what? You'll _also_ remember me kicking the living shit out of Moros and him crying like a baby."

As the last of the enemy forces followed the Peth from the hotel, Ben slowly trudged back to the entrance to the cave.

"I am the king, after all," he mumbled.

* * *

The physicians told Ben that Lilian was in good health but sedated and that Fiela was stable. He had asked if the Peth should be transferred to a hospital and they told him that the facility in the cave was surprisingly advanced and that they had everything they needed to treat her there. In any event, hospital helicopters were almost certainly not flying in the storm and an ambulance would take too long to reach Steepleguard.

Even if transporting the girl had been less problematic, they didn't want her in a hospital. It would be a bad place, tomorrow. Tomorrow the lights were going to go out.

Ten of the guests were, not accidentally, nurses, who were now constantly monitoring Fiela. Ben directed that another bed be moved next to hers and, undeterred by the disapproving expressions of those around him, he lay down next to the girl, placing a hand on her cheek.

"Lord Disparthian is in charge," he told one of the attendants over a shoulder. "If he or anyone else needs me, I will be here. Tend to the wounded."

The attendant nodded and made a swift exit.

* * *

Fiela stirred. Looking at the clock on the wall, Ben saw it was just after three o'clock in the morning.

"Mutu," she said, blinking at him. She placed her hand on his. It had an IV tube attached to it, the needle held in place with white tape.

"I'm here," he said.

She managed a weak smile and said in a voice that was a whisper, "Duh."

Ben laughed. "You see, your English is improving already."

The girl looked confused. "But I am not speaking English."

The man realized the girl was right. She'd spoken in Agati, and so had he.

"You don't even have an accent," Fiela said, marveling at his words.

"I've got a gift for languages," he replied lamely.

The girl seemed to drift back to sleep, but then said, her eyes still closed, "Where were you?"

He assumed she was asking where he was during the reception. "In the tablet vault. I fell asleep."

"Really? I thought you were captured. Dead."

"It's my fault for disappearing like that. Get some rest."

Fiela nodded but kept speaking. "I didn't abandon you, Mutu. I kept looking."

"The vault door was locked. There was no way you could find me."

She shook her head weakly. "I heard your voice, and you were saying the most beautiful things. It was like a poem. That's how I knew you weren't... _there._ "

"Where?"

But she was asleep.

# September 28 & 29

> Barbarism is the natural state of mankind. Civilization is unnatural. It is a whim of circumstance. And barbarism must always ultimately triumph.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Robert E. Howard, _Beyond the Black River_

# 87

Steepleguard had several turrets that climbed six stories into the air, each of which housed what Ben dubbed 'Vegas Suites.' He, Lilian and Fiela occupied one of these turrets and negotiations were underway as to who would occupy the others, though there was little doubt it would be the highest-ranking nobility present, as well as Disparthian. Ruffling a few feathers, he used his authority as Anax, which still felt pretty damn silly, to appropriate one of the turrets for use as a temporary command center. This particular turret offered excellent views of the surrounding country and elevations suitable for the placement of HF, VHF, UHF, and satellite antennas, all of which had been conveniently found in the cave below.

As a result of Ridley's forethought, there were several electrical engineers and communication specialists among the Nisirtu present at Steepleguard. To Ben's surprise, Lord Disparthian had a PhD in Telecommunications Engineering, so he put the Peth lord in charge of assembling the command center. Ben told him that he wanted at least twenty large high-definition televisions removed from the guest quarters and placed on the walls. Ten were to be tuned to television news broadcasts while the other ten would display the home pages of what he considered the most reliable internet news sites. Ben further required that police scanners and military-grade receivers be brought to the turret and that Peth be assigned to monitoring local and HAM radio traffic.

Disparthian had strongly recommended that any radios and electronics not immediately needed be kept in the cave in one of the armored rooms to preserve them against the anticipated Electromagnetic Pulses, pointing out that all equipment in the command center would be put permanently out of commission once the EMP hit. Ben had agreed, and further directed that all electronics of value in the hotel be moved to the cave and similarly protected. Televisions were of dubious value, but computers would still be needed, as would far simpler items, such microwave ovens, and even stereos.

The new king also ordered that a team of Disparthian's choosing be assigned to record and time-stamp, in journals, events as they unfolded. _Paper_ journals. Ben planned to compare what was observed to what the scripts called for and check for any discrepancies. If asked why he was doing this, he wouldn't have been able to provide an answer, but his instincts were that at some point in the future the analysis would be of value. He would at least have a written record for posterity of the events that occurred the day humanity was pushed into the abyss.

After inspecting a map of the local area, Ben and the Peth had identified the best locations for roadblocks, bunkers, and observation towers. Knowing they would probably not be operational after the EMP attacks, all cars, vans, and small trucks were being placed at strategic points on the roads leading to Steepleguard. The vehicles would not fully block the roads but would force anyone approaching the hotel to zigzag between them in full view of distant observation points. The semi-trailers would be used by sentries to eat, sleep, and store weapons and ammunition at in remote locations. One had been sent to the park where Ben had picnicked with Lilian and Fiela just days ago. The overlook was an ideal position for an observation post.

Once a vehicle was put in place, a record was made of what kind of fuel it used and how much remained in its tank. Some of the fuel would work in the high-tech, EMP shielded generators that partially powered Steepleguard and the remainder might be needed for other purposes. Having an accurate record of available resources would, thought Ben, be vital in the months ahead.

* * *

"Anax," said Disparthian, returning to the command center after a prolonged absence, "the praetors of Moros and Nizrok have arrived."

Ben was sitting in a folding chair that faced the door, smoking a cigar. Disparthian's men had found a box of them in the car with Nizrok's corpse earlier that morning. Both Nizrok's and Moro's bodies were lying on steel shelves in the cave's small mortuary. The smokes were unmarked and had the taste and pull of really good Cuban cigars. The new king had cut down on his cigar habit over the past year, but the end of civilization seemed a worthy excuse to light one up.

"You've shown them the corpses and explained the situation?" he asked.

"Yes, and five of the praetors acknowledge my authority as Supreme Lord of Peth-Allati. They have already issued orders that all their troops immediately embark for Steepleguard."

"How many will make it?"

Disparthian shook his head. "Perhaps half will make it here before the collapse. Some are at very remote locations. There is no script for this movement, and international tensions are high. There is talk of war around the globe and many areas are quarantined because of Cage's disease. All but the largest airports are closed."

"So, five legions are committed, but only half will make it here. That's twenty-five hundred soldiers, if we're lucky. Yours are on the way?"

"Yes, Anax. They will be here before nightfall. I had to delay their movement as long as possible, to avoid raising Moros's suspicions, but each started their journey yesterday afternoon, and more importantly, their movements were scripted, so there will be no obstacles."

The researcher considered this. "That gives us seventy-five hundred men. We're going to have to find a place to house them."

"I already have scouts exploring options, Anax."

"Good," said Ben, though he was also worried about feeding the new arrivals. He'd have to do the math later and see how long the cave's rations would last with that many mouths to feed. He said, "What about the other praetors, the ones who will not commit?"

"They demand to communicate with their kingdoms for orders."

"Well, that's no good. I doubt the other Houses will give up their armies voluntarily."

Nodding, Disparthian said, "If you permit it, Anax, I will release them."

"Do you think that's smart? If they aren't our friends, I have to assume they are our enemies. Or will be."

"Perhaps, but they are not being unreasonable. I do not wish to condemn them for their masters' sins against us. They are praetors, Anax. I know many of them. They are good and honorable men and women. That they would seek their regents' guidance before joining a rogue kingdom is understandable."

Ben laughed. "A rogue kingdom? Is that what we are?"

"For now."

Ben drew on the cigar and watched the smoke dance as he exhaled. "Detain them until three o'clock and then have them taken back to Denver. That will give them four hours to contact their Families. That won't be enough time for them to act against us, will it?"

The Peth shook his head. "No. It will take longer than that for the Families to decide what to do, and even if they issued orders for the praetors to summon their legions and march on Steepleguard, it would be impossible, logistically, for them to get here before the collapse. The Peth are spread across the globe. In theory, those in North and South America might make it here, eventually, but not as an organized army, and by then I think it more likely than not that they would join us instead of fighting us."

"Good. Where are these courts, anyway? Are the kings and queens actually seated? Where do the scribes do their work?"

"They move frequently, Anax. The world is their kingdom, after all. But most recently, Moros's Family held court in Morocco and Nizrok's in Warsaw, Poland."

"Yours?"

Disparthian gave him a curious look. "Here, Anax. My king and queen are seated _here_."

# 88

Ben took a moment to step out onto the high balcony that floated on the edge of the turret. He breathed in the fresh mountain air and marveled that, for the first time in almost a week, the skies were a pure, crystal blue. It seemed wrong that it should be so, given what would happen later that day, but he reminded himself that weather was a local event and while the skies had cleared over the Rockies the storms Steepleguard had endured were now hitting the Midwest.

As he admired the mountains and meditated on what needed to be done, Lilian appeared next to him. She was wearing a white mink jacket over a dress that appeared to have been spun from gold. There was a bandage on her lower jaw, the flesh around it a dull purple.

"Good morning, Mutu," she said, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. "You appear to be making good progress."

"Yeah, I think we'll be ready by this evening. Still no sign of Ridley, though. I've had all the grounds searched and every room in Steepleguard. Nothing."

Lilian, gazing at a distant peak, said, "He knows what he's doing. I'm sure that wherever he is, he is there for a reason."

"That's what scares me."

"Why should it?"

"Because it means he's up to something."

The woman shrugged. "He is always up to something."

Ben grunted, not liking the answer. He hadn't told her, and never would, about Ridley's confession that he was the author of the apocalypse script, and that he had written it at the command of someone, or something, he did not understand.

For the first time in their short relationship, Ben had some secrets of his own.

He said, "You knew what the apocalypse script was before it started. You knew the world was ending. I'm guessing Disparthian was your source?"

"Yes. He knew the truth long ago, of course, but he is Peth. Though he disapproved of the script, he was unable to overcome his genetic predisposition and oppose his king. But over the past month, things began to change. The monarchs become oddly unresponsive to the Peth lords and even the scribes. He, and some others, began to suspect they had somehow lost control of the script and were unwilling to admit it. When his king became completely unresponsive to his queries, the spell was broken. Peth need leadership."

"Why did he choose you, though?"

"Because I had a claim, however weak, to a throne. I answered his calls and welcomed his visits. He needed a plan, so I gave him one. That was sufficient to bind him to me. Of course, he continued to pretend to cooperate with the Seven."

She put a hand on Ben's chest. "For what it's worth, Mutu, he sabotaged many of his scripts. He drove the Ardoon away from the very places he was supposed to concentrate them. He saved a great many lives."

"Why would he do that?"

"He has an inconvenient conscience."

"His scripts killed hundreds of millions of people, too."

"They were his scripts, yes, but the decision to write them was not his."

"Just following orders?"

"As you say," Lilian sighed, dropping her hand and looking away. "You realize, I hope, that what happens to the Ardoon is now on our shoulders. Yours, in particular. You are king. You will decide what happens after the script has run its course."

Ben shook his head. "At most, I'm the 'king' of Denver."

"Yes, but what happens in Denver matters a great deal. If you re-establish law, commerce, education, trade, and so forth, others will learn of it and flock here. There is no other place like Steepleguard, Mutu. Either we kickstart civilization here, or the world will spend the next few centuries in chaos. We are like the Madihee of ancient times. Or, if you will, the ancient Greeks or Romans. What happens here will have great impact everywhere else."

"We rule from the shadows, of course," said Ben. "Isn't that what you want? Isn't it the Nisirtu way?"

Lilian didn't answer. She didn't need to.

"When was I immunized?"

"What?"

"When was I immunized from Cage's disease?"

Lilian lifted an eyebrow. "Always the clever one, aren't you? The night Fiela attacked you. My physician injected you with the vaccine. How did you know?"

"Lucky guess. How much more of the vaccine do we have?"

"None, Mutu. The Nisirtu are naturally immune. The disease was made to bypass us. The vaccine for Ardoon must be customized to match their DNA profile. It takes weeks to make a single vaccine for a single person."

"But we've got the ingredients here?"

"Yes. Enough for perhaps a thousand immunizations. Of course, it will take a very long time"

"We'll do the children first, then," said Ben. "Then the women, then the men. It starts now. Tell whoever you have to."

"Won't the Ardoon here wonder why we are giving them injections?"

"You said the vaccines have to be customized. Start collecting the DNA samples now. Hair samples, saliva on cups, whatever. Be creative. You're good at that. By the time the vaccines become available, no one here is going to question the need for them."

Lilian shrugged. "As you say."

There was a long, awkward silence before Ben said, "So, you're minus a tooth?"

She nodded. "It wasn't a challenge for the dentist. It practically jumped out of my mouth. He said everything else looks fine. It was, at least, a back tooth."

Another awkward silence followed.

Lilian spoke first this time. "Ben, we do not need to love one another. I don't know that we ever will because we are very different people with very different values and histories. I know you hate me, and I will do what I can to raise your estimation of me in the days ahead. For now, though, we must be at peace. We must at least _feign_ love. A great many people depend upon us. If the cracks in our relationship are too obvious, there will be trouble. You can see that, can't you?"

Ben nodded. "I can."

The woman looked back at the command center. "I will have dinner sent to you and your team."

"You don't plan to be here? I thought that you would want to witness...you know. _The end_."

"No. I want to focus on the future. I will leave this to you and Diz."

Diz. That was what Lilian called Disparthian, Ben had learned. He wondered whether the man's other acquaintances called him that or whether it was a more intimate nickname.

"What do you have planned?" he asked.

"Do not think me evil," she answered, "but I think I shall arrange for some music in the ballroom."

"Music? _Tonight? "_

"Tonight, yes. I'm sure you think it is ghoulish, but it will give the residents of Steepleguard something to do other than stew on what is going on in the outside world. Remember, they did not plan the approaching cataclysm. They have friends and family who will die in the days to come. They have lost their homes and live here as guests. You have busied yourself here and so will not have noticed that the mood is quite somber below. The children sense this melancholy and are growing afraid."

Ben hadn't thought of that. The fact was that among Steepleguard's four hundred or so residents there were at least a hundred children of various ages already traumatized by the attack on the hotel. The fetches, too - he had given up on calling them servants since no one else did - were in shock.

Earlier that morning Ben had told the Ardoon workers who had come to Steepleguard for the reception that the roads to and from the hotel were blocked by National Guard troops pending an investigation of the previous night's attack, which he hinted were the actions of a drug cartel. No one could leave Steepleguard unless given special permission to do so by the Governor.

He took the lie a step further by claiming he had worked out a deal with said Governor to fly any immediate family from Denver or nearby cities to Steepleguard, free of charge, to wait out the investigation, assuring all the stranded workers that they would be compensated for lost wages.

It was a fiction that would not hold up to close scrutiny, but it was the best he could do on such short notice. He wanted to save as many of the workers and their families as possible from what was coming, and toward that end, he was gratified to learn that many of them had accepted his offer. Even now, a helicopter was landing on the helipad with two additional families aboard. Eight had arrived since sunrise. Tonight, if any of the workers demanded to be returned home, he would grudgingly accommodate them.

He had also dispatched a team of four Peth to Denver to collect a small group of friends and associates and their families. He had called each of them personally and offered a variety of enticements, to include money, fame, and some more sordid things of which he wasn't proud. Most seemed reluctant to travel to Steepleguard on such short notice. It was possible he might be able to find those who refused him after collapse, but doing so would be far more difficult.

Tomorrow, Steepleguard would be locked down.

"You're right," he said. "Better that we give them something else to focus on. What about Fiela?"

Lilian grunted. "She keeps trying to get out of bed. She claims she feels no pain and accuses the physicians of drugging her for unspecified but nefarious purposes. She has made veiled threats against them, and they are, understandably, nervous. A scalpel is unaccounted for."

Ben smiled at last. "I'll talk to her."

# 89

The Fleming Stradivarius that Lilian had played since she was a child had been on "perpetual loan" from King James II of England since the late 1600s. The king had loaned it to one of her ancestors who, posing as a royal advisor, provided James intelligence that assisted him in quashing a rebellion in southern England. Never mind that the rebellion was scripted to both occur and to be crushed, the Nisirtu nobleman was fond of music and so accepted the violin. He did this on condition that the king write in his own hand a letter stating that the instrument was a loan and not a gift. That letter, sealed in wax, was still in Lilian's possession, and should the late king or his descendants ever appear to reclaim the violin, she would hand it over without question.

Until then, she would take good care of it.

She surveyed the ballroom as she lifted the violin to her shoulder. Most of Steepleguard's residents were present. Lilian imagined that many Nisirtu attended because they deemed it unwise to reject the queen's invitation but hoped that her reputation as a virtuoso attracted many more. The Ardoon present seemed pleased just to have something to do.

Her program called for her to play a few pieces and then to sing a few songs before returning to the violin. A mezzo-soprano, she had included in the program excerpts from _La damnation de Faust_ , _Giulio Cesare_ , and _The Marriage of Figero_. To conclude the evening, she had arranged a performance by some of the children.

She looked at a distant clock and saw that the apocalypse was about to begin in earnest. Smiling radiantly at those gathered before her, she raised her bow and said, "Tonight, let us remember our ancestors. _Qualis artifex pereo!_ "

There were murmurs of approval and a respectful silence.

She smiled and said, "Now, _Paganini's 24 Caprices_ ," and began to play.

* * *

Ben stared at the computer screen, Disparthian at his side. The internet had just gone down.

Everywhere.

"It will not be come back," said Disparthian. "Not for a few centuries. Now that people are unable to communicate with one another, or share news, the paranoia will begin to set in."

"How long before the television broadcasts stop?"

"Twenty or thirty minutes. Per the script, it is crucial that the broadcasters not be given an opportunity to discount any of the misinformation spread on the internet before it went down. The misinformation varies according to the demographics of the websites' viewers. It is catered to maximize its believability. Conservative websites that were hijacked blamed the coming collapse, in some form, on minorities, anarchists, communists, and so forth. Liberal websites were tweaked to blame gun-wielding vigilantes, survivalists, the U.S. military, the industrial-military complex, and so on.

"Sites that catered to conspiracy theorists were fed misinformation about aliens and comets and meteors and solar flares. Environmentalists' websites were fed stories about 'runaway global warming' and the rapid melting of ice sheets and coastal flooding. And so forth. Whatever scenario the audience feared most and wanted to believe has been delivered to them.

"Social media outlets were, prior to the outage moments ago, barraged with desperate pleas from people supposedly caught in nuclear blasts, or being rounded up and put into containment camps, or fleeing government entities sent to kill those who had come in contact with someone who had died from Cage's disease. These messages were pre-generated by the Nisirtu and are now imprinted upon the minds of hundreds of millions of people, who will spread the lies to millions of others, by word of mouth. Now that the seeds of discord and anarchy are planted, they must be allowed to grow, so all news sources will be taken down before they can disavow any of the claims."

"All of them?" asked Ben.

"All of them."

* * *

The intermission ended, Lilian again stood front and center. An elderly man with Einstein hair sat behind her, a violin - not hers - at the ready. The queen waited patiently for everyone to retake their seats before saying, "I am minus an orchestra, but William here has been kind enough to offer his services. I assure all of you that he plays splendidly."

The audience applauded, and the man named William stood and nodded humbly before returning to his seat.

Lilian said, "This is a short piece from _La damnation de Faust_. She nodded at the violinist behind her, who began to play. She sang:

_Autrefois un roi de Thulé,_

_Qui jusqu'au tombeau fut fidèle,_

_Reçut, à la mort de sa belle,_

_Une coupe d'or ciselé._

_Comme elle ne le quittait guère,_

_Dans les festins les plus joyeux,_

_Toujours une larme légère_

_A sa vue humectait ses yeux._

Fiela sat in wheelchair at the back of the room, a saline drip dangling next to her. She loved Lilian's voice but understood not a word of French, and so had begged her sister in advance for a translation of anything she might sing that was not in English or Agati. Lilian had generously provided a translation, written in her own hand, before the performance began. Fiela tried to follow it as her sister sang:

_Once there was a king of Thule_

_Who was faithful until death,_

_Received, on his fair one's death,_

_A carved cup of gold._

_As it never left him,_

_In the happiest festivals_

_Always a light tear_

_Moistened his eyes._

At 8:12 PM, the television stations started blinking out. It was like watching dominoes fall. First one, then two, then four, then eight screens went black mid-broadcast. When they were all gone, Ben had the radios turned on.

Local broadcasters were in a panic. They were repeating what they had read on the internet or had seen on television before those two bastions of information had expired. The radio announcers urged listeners to remain calm but to take cover in the event that any of the myriad reports regarding war, an incoming meteor, rogue militias, or anything else were true, while also encouraging them to take their radios with them.

Many were astonished that the Emergency Broadcast System had not been activated, though a few pointed out that the people in charge of the system, whoever they were, might be unable to activate it, or the antennas might have been destroyed. Law enforcement personnel and local government leaders appeared at the radio stations to plea for calm and to ensure listeners that everything that could be done was being done, without specifying what the problem actually was, since clearly they didn't know. There were discussions about contacting local HAM operators.

At 8:43 PM the radio stations went off the air just seconds before all the radios and televisions went dead. The lights at Steepleguard flickered, but remained operational. Ben, knowing what had just happened, stepped out onto the balcony and looked up at the sky, but he didn't see anything unusual. He was surprised. He thought that an EMP blast would light up the sky, especially at night. Maybe the nearest blast had occurred too far away. Still, he knew that the lights were blinking off around the world. The grid was dying, and the engines of earth were grinding to a halt.

Electricity was again, for the rest of the world, an untethered force of nature.

* * *

The evening's performance was nearly concluded. Lilian now stood in the center of the ballroom surrounded by the children, both Nisirtu and Ardoon, ages six to eleven. As their smiling parents watched from the perimeter, she said, "Are you ready to show your parents what we have practiced?"

"Yes!" said several of the children, while others look away bashfully and just nodded.

"Good. Now, form a circle and hold hands. That's right...like that, yes. Very good!"

When they were in position, the queen said, "Okay, let's start."

The children began to move in a circle around Lilian, "the Fair Lady," and sang.

_London Bridge is falling down,_

_Falling down, falling down,_

_London Bridge is falling down,_

_My fair lady._

Lilian, pretending to be astonished the bridge might fall, sang with them, suggesting in consecutive verses that the bridge be rebuilt with wood and clay, bricks and mortar, iron and steel, and silver and gold.

The wise children, however, warned her that wood and clay would wash away, bricks and mortar would not stay, iron and steel would bend and bow, and silver and gold would be stolen away.

At last, Lilian, a finger in the air, suggested a man could keep watch over the bridge, only to be advised by the children that the man watching the bridge might fall asleep.

She addressed this concern, singing:

_Give him a pipe to smoke all night,_

_Smoke all night, smoke all night,_

_Give him a pipe to smoke all night!_

To which the children yelled, "My fair lady!" before falling to the floor in a laughing fit. The ballroom erupted in applause.

In Los Angeles, the night became as day.

# 90

The next evening, Ben sat alone in Ridley's old study and meditated on all that had happened in the past week and wondering what lay ahead.

He pondered Ridley's statement that a force of some kind was being born on the other side of the world that would take possession of any lands that the Fifth Kingdom did not claim and that it would fight for the lands the kingdom had. What kind of power, he wondered? A military power? What of the other Nisirtu kingdoms? Surely, they would not be powerless to stop such an advance.

Where exactly had Ridley gone? Lilian had said that the scribe had told her he was a player in a script written by another, but that begged the question, _what script?_ Who was the author, and how did Ridley know about it? Wasn't it a truism that the actors in Nisirtu scripts didn't know they were actors?

Ben wondered if he was still an actor in such a script. This question bothered him because it raised the unnerving question of whether the decisions he was making were his alone. If the decisions he had made up to this point and would make in the future were based on a set of values and beliefs instilled in him by a life-long script, was he really is own man? Did he really have free will if everything he did was the result of some hidden power's manipulation?

The photo album in his lap made such questions even more pressing.

That's what it had been, the thing on the metal table next to Ridley in the cave - the large leather book that Ben had seen just before the scribe had released the Empyrean. It was a photo album filled with photographs of Ben when he was a boy. His mother and father were in many of the photographs, but Ridley was in all of them, usually smiling like it was Christmas morning and looking directly at the camera.

The scribe had not been young even then, but he was less stooped, had more hair, and his skin was tauter. He wore flannel shirts or sweater vests and sometimes caps with football team logos on them, appearing every bit the quirky uncle of which every family seemed to have at least one. There was nothing that would make the scribe's appearance in the photos remarkable, at least not to anyone but Ben, who observed that not once, in any of the photos, did his parents look at Ridley. It was as if the man were a ghost making cameo shots in family photos for his own amusement.

Ben had surmised that his parents hadn't seen the scribe. Now that the block had been removed, he remembered many of Ridley's visits and how his parents had seemed so remote when the man was present, often disappearing into their bedroom and not coming out until Ridley had told them he was leaving. It would have been easy enough for the scribe to convince them that he wasn't even there, if he spoke the right word to them.

The researcher remembered sitting in his family's kitchen with Ridley studying the Tiwanaku tablets and how after several months he had achieved the "epiphany event" - the instance in which the entirety of the Empyrean Glossa registered in his young mind. He remembered Ridley's joy and how the two of them had talked long into the night about a million unimportant things, speaking rapidly. He remembered the ice cream sandwich that had been his reward.

He also remembered how a somber Ridley had convinced him to accept the words that would imprison the Empyrean Glossa in Ben's mind for the next two decades and which would remove any memory the boy had of the scribe.

One of many mysteries the photographs did not resolve was how Ridley had happened upon Ben in the first place. How had Ridley known that young Ben Mitchell would have the capacity to learn Empyrean? How had he found him? When had the script that controlled Ben's life begun?

A more troubling question: What had those scripts required? Had they, for example, required his parents to die prematurely, as they had? Or for his family tree to die out, save him alone? Or for him to enter the Marines, or for his convoy to be bombed? Had his hasty removal from Afghanistan been scripted?

It was not a mystery, at least, why Ridley had left the photo album for him. The scribe wanted to assure the new king that his recovered memories were genuine. It would be easy for a man with Ridley's abilities, or now Ben's, to create in another person's mind an entirely fictional past. The photographs were Ridley's way of telling Ben that the memories that were resurfacing were genuine.

Unfortunately, the things that Ben had forgotten, the kinds of events that anyone might forget, remained forgotten. Empyrean did not grant its users perfect recall, and Ben had, in fact, forgotten many of the events captured in photographs contained in the album.

An event captured in one photograph, in particular, troubled him deeply.

He pulled it from the album and inspected it yet again. It was a four-inch by six-inch glossy color photograph taken at an amusement park or perhaps a county fair. Kids were everywhere in the photograph, and most were in costume, so he presumed it was taken on or around Halloween.

In the background of the photograph was a miniature castle, gray and menacing, generously decorated with plastic bats and sheeted ghosts. A set of decrepit double doors were on either side of the castle, in front of which were faux-drawbridges in the down position. A rail with red passenger cars on it spanned the distance between the two drawbridges.

It was a haunted house ride, as was made clear by the large sign affixed to one of the castle's turrets that promised in amateurishly painted gothic letters _The Beast Awaits Within!_

In the foreground of the photograph was Ridley in his yellow robe, a "costume" that would not have earned him a second glance on Halloween. For once, he wasn't smiling. His face was solemn, his expression omniscient, as if he were looking past the camera and the photographer and directly at the man now holding the photograph.

The scribe's hands were on the shoulders of the two children, a boy and girl, both perhaps ten or eleven years old. The boy, dressed as a generic superhero, his cape billowing gently behind him, faced the girl, and the girl, a glistening toy tiara resting on her golden locks, faced the boy.

The girl was bashfully holding an object out to the boy, and the boy, looking bewildered, was reluctantly extending his hand to accept it.

Ben had recognized the object immediately. He had seen it only days ago.

A golden cup.

# Epilogue

"Stay where you are!" The command came from a prone man atop a detached semi-trailer buttressed by snow-covered sandbags. The barrel of the man's rifle extended just over the edge, and its scope glinted as the sentry aimed in on the newcomers. The trailer completely blocked the road and on either side of it were walls of stacked concertina wire sheathed in ice.

A minute passed, and when no further commands came, the man below yelled back, "My name is Vedeus." Switching to the secret tongue, he added, " _Peth-Allati_ of the Tenth Kingdom." He motioned with his head toward the shivering, robed figure sitting behind him on the horse. "With me is Persipia, a noble daughter of the Eighth. She is ill and seeks refuge."

Vedeus waited for a response that didn't come. The man behind the rifle on top of the trailer didn't move. More minutes passed, during which the only sounds were the howling frigid wind and the snorts of the ragged and weary horse beneath him. Plumes of steam rose from the animal's frosted snout as it drooped its head in exhaustion. The long slog up the mountain in knee-deep snow had taken two weeks, and there had been little to forage.

The man was perplexed as to why he had not been ordered to identify himself, dismount, or lay down his weapon. Perhaps speaking the secret language of _Agati_ had been a mistake? But the odd fellow in the city below had assured him that his kind guarded the passes. If that was true, speaking the secret language should expedite Vedeus's safe passage. If his contact in the ruins of Denver was wrong, however, and slaves guarded this pass, the use of any language but English was likely to be a mortal error. Most of the slaves couldn't distinguish Agati from Russian and the only thing they feared more than a foreigner was a foreigner with shotgun across his lap.

He was jarred by the sound of a squelching radio on the wall above him. It had been months since he had heard such a sound. Almost no electronic devices worked since the collapse. A muffled conversation between a guard he couldn't see, and some distant master followed.

"We shall not be allowed in," murmured the woman behind the Peth, wringing her gloved hands against his stomach. "I am a traitor. If _Annasa_ allows me inside, it will only be to torture me."

"I was assured by the one who cared for you that you would be admitted and treated properly, Miss." Shaking the frost from his beard, he added, "At any rate, our lot is cast. We would never make it back to the city and even if we did, you know what waits for us there. The stench of a hundred thousand corpses and the cries of the infected and starving. Better to die here, in the peace of the mountains."

"We could go elsewhere," protested the passenger weakly.

"No. It is the same everywhere. I have seen it with my own eyes. The scripts were effective beyond measure. We have succeeded. The world is dead." He spat into the snow. " _All hail the wisdom of the Nisirtu._ "

"Surely some kingdoms have survived."

"Perhaps. But...where are they?"

The girl could not answer, of course, and the truth was that her new protector had his doubts about the survival of _any_ of the kingdoms. Three of the ten were wiped out during the rebellion. The location of the other ruling families was unknown to him. He had spent months traveling across the plains in an effort to reach his own only to find the estate abandoned and looted. The House had left no messages for its subjects.

Less than a year ago he had been told that the Nisirtu would be insulated from the collapse. He had been told that there might be some short-term discomforts but that these would be the labor pains required for a glorious rebirth of the world. In time, he was promised, the Nisirtu would reassert itself and again place its heels on the necks of the slaves that had unknowingly challenged the invisible order's dominance.

Had that been a lie or a delusion? Or had he been told the truth? Was he giving up too quickly? It had only been six months since the collapse. He could have kept riding, perhaps to the coast, in search of an answer.

Yet his dreams warned him to find refuge soon. There was something horrific coming for him – for _everyone._ Something more horrible than Cage's disease, or radiation, or hunger, because the thing that was coming was _sentient_. It had a mind, and that scared him. He imagined he could feel the thing's breath on his neck when he slept, though his dreams assured him that it was still far away.

A man in winter camouflage appeared to the right of the trailer and began removing a section of concertina wire that had been attached to wooden boards to form a makeshift gate. When it was withdrawn another man appeared, this one riding a white horse.

Persipia, seeing the man, gasped.

"A lord of the Peth!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," replied Vedeus stoically, trying to conceal the emotion in his own voice. The appearance of the figure now approaching them was proof that not only had he finally found his own kind, but that these people had a hierarchy. Rules. _Order._ He hadn't realized how much he needed order in his life until he began roaming the fields of anarchy months ago.

The figure on the stallion that moved slowly toward them was bearded, as were almost all men now, and was dressed in the black combat armor of the _Peth-Allati_. A red cloak churned in the wind behind him. Only Nisirtu military officers of highest station were allowed cloaks but more indicative of the man's status was the brilliant ceremonial breastplate he wore atop his real body armor. Silver and adorned with intricate cuneiform calligraphy, it shimmered beneath the dull winter sun.

"Peth Vedeus," boomed the man as he approached with his right hand raised in greeting. "I am-"

Persipia startled both men by throwing herself into the snow and beginning to crawl forward. "Lord!" she cried, "Have mercy and take me to the king! I am promised to him!"

Vedeus and the other man quickly jumped from their horses. The Peth lord reached the woman first and lifted her into his arms effortlessly. She weighed almost nothing.

"You will meet him soon," he assured her.

Grasping his collar, she pleaded in an a barely audible voice, "Tell him I am here. Tell him to protect me."

"From who, Lady?"

" _Her,_ " whispered the woman. But then her eyelids slowly closed, and her body went limp in his arms.

"She has had a hard time of it," said Vedeus. "Her mother, a lady, was brutally killed shortly before we began our ascent. She was unwell even before that, and the lack of food and warmth this past week has put her into a state of delirium. Until we reached this place, she uttered hardly a word to me."

"She will be cared for," replied the Peth lord. "The queen has sent me to retrieve her. Bring the horses. I will carry the woman through the gate."

The traveler took the reins of both animals in one hand and began following the other man through the opening in the wire. There were tall trees on either side of the road and the two men trudged into their shadows.

"Shall I not hand over my weapon?" asked Vedeus, seeing two figures in white camouflage emerge from the trailer and fall in behind him. Both wore black masks across their faces and carried high-tech carbines with laser sites.

"That will not be necessary."

_Not necessary? I am stranger carrying a shotgun..._

The road on which he found himself zigged and zagged upward and the many abandoned cars parked on it formed a maze of sorts. The entourage walked for another ten minutes in silence. Vedeus began to worry that he had not been disarmed because he would not be traveling as far as his escorts - that a bullet might find its way into his head at any moment.

"What shall be done with me?" he at last asked, looking over his shoulder at the men with guns.

The figure ahead said, "Don't worry, Vedeus. The Fifth Kingdom is in need of soldiers like you."

The emaciated warrior jerked his head forward and said with astonishment, "The Fifth Kingdom stands?"

"The _true_ Fifth Kingdom, yes. Here, in these mountains, and below. Our spies have been watching you for some time. Tell me, what was the name of the man you spoke to in the ruins of the city before you began your journey here?"

"He did not give me his name, or else I do not remember it. I found him tending to the girl and her mother, and he insisted I bring the girl here."

"Why would you acquiesce to such a request?"

Vedeus had asked himself that same question a million times. Since he did not know the answer, he told the man ahead what he had begun to tell himself. "He spoke our language, and I felt pity for the woman."

"I see," said the Peth lord without inflection. He walked another ten paces and said, "You will be examined by our medical team, fed, and allowed a chance to wash up and sleep. After that, we will talk. I believe roasted turkey is on the menu. Does that suit you?"

Here, at last, Vedeus broke down. Icy tears streamed down his chapped red face and onto his filthy and matted beard. "Suit me?" he croaked. "To lick the pan it was cooked in would be a feast." His growling stomach prompted him to ask, "How far is it to your camp?"

The other man laughed. "Camp? Vedeus, you have reached _Steepleguard._ "

"I do not know the name," admitted the Peth. "The man in the city told me only to seek refuge at the top of the mountain. You have a fortification, then?"

"Of a kind."

The group had reached a bend in the road. As they turned and began a sharp ascent up a wide path cleared of snow, Vedeus came to an abrupt stop. Perhaps a hundred yards in the distance was a hill on which had been constructed a building of monstrous size. It was a city unto itself, four stories tall and as wide as a football field. Stone towers marked its perimeter. Each of its hundreds of windows was aglow with a warm yellow light. Smoke rose from a dozen chimneys.

He thought he could hear music and he smelled.... _oh gods, is this possible?_ Somewhere, in some unseen kitchen, bread was being baked. As the scent wafted over him, he thought his knees might buckle.

With the unconscious girl still in his arms, the Peth lord turned to face the new arrival. "Welcome, Vedeus, to the Fifth Kingdom of the Nisirtu."

# Book 2 Available Now!

The Nisirtu saga continues in -

* * *

The Ardoon King

* * *

If you've enjoyed this book, please leave a positive review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Right now, before...

... _you know_. The world ends.

I'll put in a good word for you with the 5th Kingdom.

* * *

Thanks!

Sam

# Glossary of Terms - Contains Spoilers!

  * Agati [uh-gah'-tee]: Modern version of Akkadian, but influenced heavily by Greek, Latin, English, Spanish, Chinese, and various ancient languages. Bears little similarity to the ancient language of Akkadian. One feature of the language is that there are no plural forms of words. Plurality is conveyed by the context of the sentence.
  * Annasa [uh-nah'-suh]: Queen
  * Anax [ae'-noks]: King
  * Ardoon [ar'-doon]: Anyone who is not a member of the Nisirtu. In Agati, the term means "slave."
  * Asatu [uh-sah'-too]: Wife
  * The Code: The modern-day version of the Code of Hammurabi. The body of all laws that govern the Nisirtu.
  * Consort: An official mistress to a king.
  * Cuneiform Nouveau: Modern version of cuneiform often referred to as simply cuneiform or nouveau by Nisirtu.
  * Channel: Monumental, traumatic events in world history designed to make the population malleable and that ensure the success of required scripts.
  * Fetch: An Ardoon personal servant and assistant to a member of the Nisirtu, responsible for ensuring his or her master is provided anything requested.
  * Family: A royal family and its subjects, to include a sizeable percentage of the human population. Synonymous with "kingdom" and "House" within Nisirtu parlance.
  * House: A royal family and its subjects, to include a sizable percentage of the human population. Synonymous with "kingdom" and "Family" within Nisirtu parlance.
  * Kingdom: A royal family and its subjects, to include a sizeable percentage of the human population. Synonymous with "House" and "Family" within Nisirtu parlance.
  * Empyrean Glossa: The universal language, aka, "The Language of the Heavens" or "The Angelic Tongue." The "primal" language of all sentient beings.
  * Legion: Within the Peth-Allati, a force consisting of 1,000 Peth warriors commanded by a Praetor. Each Peth Lord has at his disposal 5 legions.
  * Lord of the Peth-Allati: Within a kingdom, the highest-ranking officer of the Peth-Allati.
  * Madihee: Nomadic couriers operating 5,000+ years ago in the vicinity of modern-day Iraq, Syria, and Iran.
  * Maqtu [mahk'-too]: Rebel. A member of the three kingdoms that rebelled against the other seven when the decision was made to end civilization.
  * Mutu [moo'-too]: Husband.
  * Nisirtu [ni-sur'-too]: The Hidden Ones, or Secret Treasure. The society that has controlled the world for 5,000 years. Descendants of the Madihee
  * Nocte Sicarius [nok'-tay sick-air'-ee-us]: Night Assassin. A specialized Peth-Allati.
  * Peth-Allati [peth-uh-lah'-tee]: Literally, "Shadow Horseman." In modern usage, any member of the Nisirtu warrior class, or group of members. Often referred to as merely "Peth."
  * Praetor [pree'-tor]: Commander of a single legion who reports to a Lord of the Peth-Allati.
  * Sage: A scribe of the highest rank.
  * Scenario: A collection of scripts interconnected to achieve a single purpose. Often simply referred to as a script, that is not technically correct.
  * Scribe: An intellectual charged with writing the scripts, scenarios, channels, etc., that guide humanity. The scripts of scribes are directed by their respective regents.
  * Scribes are typically addressed as "Scriptus."
  * Script: A blueprint for a future world event at its most elemental level.
  * Scriptus: Formal title of a scribe.
  * Sereti [suh-re'-tee]: A female Nisirtu groomed from birth to serve as Asatu or Serretu to a nobleman, with expertise in court protocols, ceremonies, oversight of fetches, and other high level domestic duties.
  * Serretu [sur-re'too]: Wife, but of lower stature/rank than the Asatu.
  * The Seven: The seven dominant kingdoms of the Nisirtu. At war with the Maqtu.
  * Supreme Lord of the Peth-Allati: Senior Peth of the Nisirtu and Commander of all Peth Lords.
  * Ziggurat: Regional conferences of Nisirtu nobles. Locations vary each lunar month.

