"Grantville Gazette Volume XI" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flint Eric)

The Treasure Hunters
Karen Bergstralh

March, 2000

The librarian stamped the book and handed it across the desk. "This is a grown-up book, Mikey. It came all the way from a library in Richmond and you can only have one renewal on it. It must be back by April sixteenth."

Michael Arthur Tyler grabbed the book before she could change her mind and quickly muttered, "Thank you." He didn't want her phoning his mother with a complaint about his manners. Momma might tell him to return the book and leave 'grown-up' books until he was older. Just because he was small everybody thought he was still a little kid. No matter how he stretched, he stood barely 4' 9" in his sneakers. Small, thin, and with an unruly mass of sandy colored hair that flopped over his eyes, people who didn't know him pegged him at eight or nine at most. Lots of folks who did know him still thought he was only ten.

Michael was afraid he would be this small forever. Nanna had told him that his father had been small until he was fifteen and then had started to grow. She always said that he would to grow but Michael wasn't sure he believed her. He didn't know if he could stand another year of being the smallest boy in class.

Once outside the library, Michael shuffled down the sidewalk. His feet absently kicked at rocks in the universal manner of fourteen-year-old boys. His thoughts were far away in place and time. Tucked securely under his arm was his prize, a copy of The Lost Tomb. The book promised secrets of a new Egyptian tomb – the biggest ever found.

"Hey, Dweebie!" Danny Colburn yelled. "Whatcha got there? Didn't your momma teach you to share?" Danny and his twin, Shawn, appeared from around the corner. "Look, Shawn, Dweebie's got a book! Does it have pretty pictures, Dweebie?" The two boys loomed over him. Shawn snatched at Michael's book while Danny made a couple of mock swings at Michael's head. The twins were big. They stood almost six feet tall and were the same age as Michael. Since the third grade the twins been the biggest kids in class. Since the fourth grade, Michael had been their favorite target.

"Maybe it's got real words – really small and simple words. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run!" Shawn guffawed.

"Naw, gotta be pictures – puppies and kitties. Here, gimme that book, Dweeb!" Danny shoved Michael into Shawn's arms and yanked the book away. Shawn pushed Michael hard, forcing him to his knees. Michael made a futile grab for his book before Shawn slammed him face first into the sidewalk.

"Aw, Dweebie. This can't be for you – it's all small print. Maybe it would be good kindling… "

"Give my book back!" wailed Michael. Panic made his voice squeak.

"Hey, Dweebie." Shawn shoved Michael back down with his size twelve shoe. "I didn't tell you to move. Did you tell him he could move, Danny?"

"Naw, Stop wiggling, Worm, or we'll stomp you… " Danny threatened.

Michael, his face squashed against the sidewalk, fought tears. The twins usually were satisfied with giving him black eye and a bloody nose but they had torn up his books before. This was a library book. The last time the twins had torn up a library book all of his allowance and savings hadn't been enough to pay for it. His dad had to make up the rest. Dad had walked Michael down to the library with the money and complained about the cost of the book the whole way there and back. When they got home he'd taken his belt to Michael and warned him, "That better be the last time I have to cough up money for one of your weird books, boy, or your hide will be black and blue for a year. Why'd ya want such a dumb book anyway? For Gods sake, Mikey, grow up and stop reading such useless shit."

What would happen if the twins tore this one up? If he fought back maybe they would just beat him up and forget about his book. He tensed, ready to roll over and grab for Shawn's foot when a loud shout echoed down the street.

"Daniel! Shawn! Get away from Michael right now!" Mr. Reading, the elementary school principal was striding toward the boys. He looked furious. "How many times have you two been told to leave him alone? I'm going to have another talk with your parents." Mr. Reading grabbed both boys and shook them. He looked down and asked, "Are you okay, Mikey?" When Michael scrambled to his feet and nodded, Mr. Reading took the book from Danny's oversized paw and inspected it. "Obviously this belongs to Mikey, not you two louts. Here, son." When Mr. Reading turned away to hand the book to Michael the twins took off at a run. "I'll be calling your parents!" he yelled.

"Umm, thanks, Mr. Reading." Michael said in a small voice. He peered around wildly. Bad enough that the twins had nearly ripped up his book and given him another beating, but this! The school principal rescuing him was almost too much. If he was lucky none of the other kids had seen.

"Still interested in archeology, eh, Mikey" Mr. Reading asked.

"Yessir. "

"Good, good. It's an interesting career. Do you have any ideas on what you want to dig up?"

"Yeah… See, there's this new tomb in the Valley of the Kings – that's what this book is about." Michael politely showed the book to Mr. Reading.

"So you're reading up on the new discovery. That's good scholarship. Keep learning and you'll do well in college. Its good to have high goals, Mikey". Mr. Reading smiled and put his hand on Michael's shoulder. "You keep studying hard and you'll make it. Now, I'd like to hear more about this new tomb."

"Yes sir. See, the pharaoh Ramesses, that's Ramesses the Second, had something like a hundred sons… " Michael's mind raced. If he gave a good enough answer maybe Mr. Reading would be satisfied and leave before anyone saw them together. "… and this tomb – they call it KV5 – well, it's where all those sons got buried." Unfortunately Mr. Reading showed no signs of leaving. Instead he walked beside Michael, asking questions about archeology.

Michael tucked his book under his arm and walked and talked automatically. Inside he wailed at the unfairness of it all. By tomorrow morning every kid in school was going to know Mr. Reading had walked him home. Like he was a kindergardner! When they came to his house, Michael's heart sank further. His father was home early. He could hear him yelling at his mother. With a quick "goodbye" flung at Mr. Reading, Michael fled inside and upstairs to hide his "weird" book.

Spring 1632

Michael leaned on the hoe and eyed the garden patch with satisfaction. Not even Nanna or Gramps would find anything to complain about. He'd turned over the soil, carefully mixing in just the right amount of mulch the way Gramps had shown him. He and Gramps had made a chicken wire mulching enclosure last fall and filled it with raked up old leaves and cut grass. Over the winter it had turned into nice black mulch; just like Nanna said it would. All his rows were straight and evenly spaced. Each had a neatly lettered sign telling what was growing there. Three stake and wire trellises were ready for training the peas and a couple of old tomato cages stood guard at the far end. Gramps had built the fence up high enough to keep deer out. Butch wandered over from his patch of shade and sniffed at the corn sign.

"Leave it be, Butch. Don't you go digging in here or Gramps'll make a rug out of your mangy hide." Michael warned the dog while he scratched the mutt's ears. "Your job's keeping the raccoons and possums out of the garden." He had to lean over to pet the dog, a sign that he was growing taller. Last fall he didn't have to lean over to scratch Butch's back. "Hey, Butch, look at this!" Michael pushed up his sleeve and flexed his arm and eyed the resulting small bulge with glee. "I'm getting muscles!"

Butch panted companionably and wandered back to his shade without voicing an opinion on either the "no digging" rule or Michael's new biceps.

"Hey, Mike! We're going down to the fairgrounds. Want to come along?" Joe Matowski called out. Jon Sizemore and Willy Lutz stood beside him outside the garden gate. "They're having a team roping practice. Annette's dad is going to be there and she said they're looking for somebody to work the gates."

"Yeah, yeah! Wait 'til I tell Mom I'm going with you." Michael grinned at his friends and raced for the backdoor. If Annette O'Reilly was going to be at the team roping, it was likely that her cousin Jo Ann Manning would be there, too. Jo Ann hadn't giggled when he gave his report on archaeology in class. The other kids whispered, giggled, and squirmed in their seats but Jo Ann sat still and listened. She had asked a couple of smart questions and smiled when he answered them.

The boys trudged back up the road, tired, dirty, and happy. The outing had been a success – they had gotten to move the steers in and out of the pens.

"What are you going to do this summer, Mike?" Joe asked.

"Don't know. I've got to keep the garden going and Gramps said he wants me to help out at the restaurant." Michael sighed and tossed a rock.

"That doesn't sound too bad. My folks want me to start Latin class over the summer. Pop's got this idea that I should go to that university in Jena." It was Joe's turn to chuck a couple of rocks.

"I've got a job at the Kudzu Werke. If it works out I might get apprenticed," Jon crowed, throwing a good-sized rock a long way down the road.

"Cool! How about you, Willy?" Michael asked.

"School und… and more school. English and Latin. I am to prepare for the university, also." A pair of rocks whipped out in quick succession from Willy's hands.

"Bummer." Michael sent three rocks after Willy's.

"Yeah, bummer." Joe also got three rocks off but dropped the fourth.

Jon grinned and rapidly tossed four rocks after Joe's.

August, 1632

"Troy is right where Homer said it was." Michael pontificated. He knelt on the floor and reached under his bed. "Schliemann used the description in the Iliad to find it. But he got a surprise when he dug up Troy. There wasn't just one city. He found eleven cities, each built on top of the previous one." Michael pulled out a fat, dusty notebook. "It's all in here. Maps, articles, pictures, and all sorts of stuff. You can copy what you need."

"Wow! Thanks, Mike! This should make our report a lot better than any of the others. Right, Willy?" Joe Matowski grinned at the other boy.

" Ja, ja. But we must change the picture titles to Latin," Willy pointed out, flipping through the notebook. He stopped suddenly, his eyes big. " Ist… is this gold?"

Michael scooted over and peered over Willy's shoulder. "Yeah, oh, yeah. That's 'Priam's Treasure.' Schliemann found it. The woman wearing it in this picture is his wife, Sophia. She was a Greek he met while looking for Troy."

"Gee, I thought you said archaeologist weren't treasure hunters," Joe complained. "You said archaeologists were interested in old pots and things."

"Well, Schliemann wasn't really an archaeologist. He was a rich guy trying to prove that Troy really did exist. Because he didn't know how to do archaeology, he dug great big trenches completely through Troy. The real archaeologists who came latter hated him for doing that."

"But he found this gold?" Joe thumped the picture. "What did he do with it?"

"Yeah, he found it." Michael replied. "I think he gave it to some museum in Berlin 'cause it was supposed to have been destroyed during World War II."

"Supposed to?" Joe asked, his voice showing his interest. Willy also stared at Michael in fascination.

"Everybody thought so until a couple of years ago – ah, about 1996 or so." Michael flipped to the back of the notebook and showed them a newspaper clipping. "Turns out that the Russians stole it and hid it."

"Cool. This is great, Willy." Joe grinned at his friends. "We get all these neat pictures and a treasure, too!" Joe read a bit of the clipping then said, "Says here that Schliemann found Troy in 1871. Does that mean that the treasure is still there now?"

"Guess so… yeah, it would be." Michael nodded and slowly smiled. The thought of an undisturbed Troy appealed to him.

"So maybe we ought to go dig it up."

Michael thought for a minute, then shook his head. "No, what I want to do is get there first and do a real archaeological dig. Just digging for the treasure would mean destroying Troy again. The Treasure of Priam was buried really deep. We'd be digging for years. Besides, there are other treasures, bigger treasures that aren't buried under an entire hill."

"Come on! What treasures?"

Michael dove back under his bed and pulled out two more notebooks. "The first is the Atocha. It's a real big Spanish treasure galleon that sank in shallow water off Florida. It had tons of gold, silver, emeralds, everything."

"Wow! Way cool!" Joe flipped rapidly through the second notebook. Willy reached over and stopped him at one picture showing a bare-chested man with many gold chains draped over his neck and shoulders.

"So much gold. Where is Florida?" asked Willy.

Joe sat back suddenly and shut the notebook. "It's in America," he said, his voice flat and defeated. "Half way around the world from here. It's also under water and we don't have any scuba gear."

Michael nodded. "Yeah, and even if we had dive gear we don't know how to use it. Well, Troy's on land but its not very close, either."

"What's in the other notebook?" Joe eyed the third notebook, the fattest of all. "Another underwater treasure?"

"Nope. This one's King Tut's Tomb. It's on land, but it's in Egypt." Michael sighed and opened the notebook. There on the first page, in rich color, was the golden sarcophagus of the boy pharaoh, Tutankhamun.

October, 1632

"Wilhelm, come in, come in. See who is here!" Willy's mother called excitedly. "Your Uncle Johannes has come, all the way from Hamburg!"

Willy carefully kept his face expressionless and looked at his father. Uncle Johannes' visits were exciting – filled with tales of the far off places he'd gone and the strange sights he'd seen. But Willy knew how much his father detested Uncle Johannes. Hermann Lutz sat glowering across the table from his brother-in-law. Inwardly Willy groaned. Uncle Johannes's visits meant trouble.

"What a little scholar you've become!" Johannes Fraze smiled warmly at his nephew. "You'll be a professor the next time I see you. A big, important professor with a solemn stare and clusters of students clamoring for your favor. You will be much too important and much too busy to see you poor old uncle."

Willy shook his head. He could feel his ears getting warm and knew he was blushing at his uncle's teasing. "No, Uncle Johannes, I'll never be too important to see you. I'm not really much of a scholar so I'll never be a professor."

"Come now, boy! I seem to always find you reading some textbook or another."

Willy looked up, startled. "This isn't a textbook, Uncle Johannes. I borrowed it from another boy in school to practice reading English."

"There you are! You've learned to speak and read English like one of these Americans. And you're learning Latin, which is the language of scholars. These are not minor accomplishments, my boy. If you don't wish to be a professor, then you can be a merchant. Merchants need to know languages, too."

"How many languages do you know, Uncle Johannes?" His uncle sometimes claimed to be a merchant but Willy's father never believed his claims. Smuggler, thief, or cheat Uncle Johannes might be, but not a merchant. Willy's mother always defended her brother vigorously attributing Johannes's lack of money to robbers and dishonest merchants who didn't pay him for his goods.

"Oh, several – my Polish is very good, so is my Spanish. I can make my way through France without trouble and I've enough Italian to get by on. But English I've never learned. Here, tell me what it says under this picture."

"It says," Willy did a quick translation in his head, "that it is a picture of Herr Howard Carter in front of the tomb of Tutankhamun."

"Amazing! You say these pictures are called photographs?"

Willy nodded.

"All these up-time things are very interesting. Do you know if any of the up-timers are teaching the making of photographs?"

"No, but the teachers at the high school would know."

"Ah! I think I must ask them about this and other things. There are opportunities here for a merchant." Uncle Johannes stroked his chin. "You say that they have classes to teach English? Classes that anyone can attend?"

"Yes, they have them at the high school. Some are in the evenings so people can work and still go to them."

"I think this might be an excellent time for me to learn English. There are good profits to be made in English goods… " Uncle Johannes's face was solemn but his eyes held a glitter and kept darting to the pictures in Michael Tyler's notebook.

February, 1634

Johannes Fraze hummed cheerfully and carefully but quickly packed his belongings. All the other members of the household were away and he wanted to be gone before any of them returned. He neatly wrapped the all-important notebook in a piece of up-time plastic and slipped it into an oiled leather sack and closed it. The resulting package he placed in the bottom of an up-time rucksack he had bought from one of the neighbors. On top of the book went a heavy purse that clinked. Johannes grinned. His year in Grantville had been rewarding in many ways. Several months ago he had slipped one of the color pictures out of the notebook. With that in hand he had made the rounds of down-timers – gullible down-timers.

He chuckled over how easy it had been.

"Herr Arndt, I come to you because I know I can trust you. I have found an opportunity for great wealth. In the library while reading to practice my English I stumbled across records of a statue. It has not yet been found and dug out of its Italian hillside. Such a statue! Solid gold! Here, look at this photograph." One look and the mark was hooked. Arndt had been so eager he hadn't even allowed Johannes to finish his pitch.

"If only I had more money. How much did you say it weighed? Oh, all that gold! Just think of it! We'll all be rich!" Reichard Arndt gibbered. The man's eyes never left the picture while Johannes explained how many shares his money had bought.

Johannes firmly pried the photograph of King Tutankhamun's golden mask out of the man's reluctant hands. When he had Arndt's attention, he explained, "I must insist that you keep this a complete secret. You cannot tell anyone, not your wife, or your sons, or your best friends."

"But why not? Klaus Lumpe and Heinrich Neumann are good men. They deserve to be rich, too!"

Johannes hid a grin. "Ah, so. Let me think about them. The secret must be kept lest other, less honorable men, find the statue first. Should I deem your friends trustworthy enough, you still must swear not to talk about it even between yourselves. It will take time to get all the necessary equipment together. More time will be needed to travel to Italy and locate the hill where the statue is buried. No one else can know what we plan until then or they might beat us to the statue."

And so it had gone time and time again with the carefully selected marks. The quick pitch, their names scribbled on a notepad with other names, and their cash in hand and each sworn to secrecy. Or at least until the previous night at the Gardens.

"Going to look for King Tut's tomb?" an amused voice asked. Johannes quickly turned the photograph over and slid it into his pocket before he replied.

"King Tut? Is that whose statue it is? A true work of art. Do you know who the artist was who made such a beautiful piece?" Johannes kept his face straight and any nervousness out of his voice. Up-timers were tricky to deal with. Some appeared to know little; others had more information rattling around in their heads than a gaggle of university professors.

"Some Egyptian, I guess," said the up-timer. "That coffin was made a long time ago. Well before Jesus' time. It sure is pretty. Strange folks, those Egyptians. All that gold wasted on a coffin."

"Remember the exhibit that came around?" a second up-timer stood beside the first. "My granny took us kids up to Pittsburgh to see it. We stood in line for a couple of hours, but it was worth it. Man, they had some pretty stuff! Set me to thinking about heading to Egypt to find me another king's tomb. I remember how disappointed I was when I found out that a lot of the gold stuff was actually carved wood covered in gold leaf."

"Yeah, that's right." The first up-timer laughed. " We studied the pharaohs in school. A lot of us dreamed of treasure hunting. If you're interested in knowing more about that coffin, you should check up at the school. There's bound to be a book on it. Come on, Ol' I'll Pay You Back Tuesday, this is Tuesday and I want some beer." The first up-timer grabbed his companion's arm and both headed off toward the bar.

Johannes sat and sipped his beer. His thoughts were racing frantically but he knew he didn't dare let anyone see how upset he was. Several of his marks were seated close by. Johannes hoped none of them had heard the up-timers. He considered what to do. These up-timers didn't appear to be suspicious of his intentions nor did they appear interested. Still, it wouldn't do to trust appearances too far. Now might be a good time to move on. In truth, there weren't too many marks left in Grantville. This had been a good swindle, a very good swindle. His purse was heavy and his "partners" were expecting him to depart for Italy. He needed a story for his sister and her family – no, best just leave a vague note.

Glancing around the room he'd shared with his nephew, Johannes contemplated some of the other rewards he'd gained in exchange for the longest stretch of honest work he had ever done. His sister refused to charge him rent and only accepted a pittance to cover his food so he had honestly earned money in his pocket. Even Hermann had stopped glowering and warmed up enough to grant that Johannes might just have had a long and terrible run of luck. It would be weeks before either of them realized how he had gulled them. Another package, as thick if not as carefully wrapped, contained a wealth of up-time materials he could peddle across Europe. The photo he'd used around Grantville rested in his purse, waiting to be brought out again with the plea "if I only had a few florins we could recover it." The world was full of gullible people who were dazzled by pretty pictures and stories of easy riches. He'd sold fake treasure maps and saints' relics all across the land for years. This time he had a real treasure map.

He gave a last look around and knelt down to feel under the bed. There had been a couple of other notebooks under there from time to time. Wilhelm had shown a surprising lack of trust in his uncle after he'd caught Johannes going through the one about a Spanish galleon. Cursing under his breath, Johannes got up and straightened his clothes. There were many things he would miss – indoor plumbing, efficient heating, soft beds, and so on. He wouldn't miss his nephew's sharp eyes. Johannes found himself debating about making one last call on Hilda. Oh-so-willing Hilda who thought they were engaged to be married. Her charms included an extremely gullible father who had borrowed money on his business to fund the treasure hunt. Of course, he and all the other "investors" thought the treasure was a solid gold Roman statue buried in Italy… Johannes chuckled. That had been his best idea.

He might go to Italy, after all. Italy was also full of gullible people, not a few of them quite rich. Italy had many charms – its weather for one, and the fact that it was far from the armies blundering about Germany.

After a check of the closet he shrugged into his coat, hoisted the rucksack and stole out the door.

April, 1634, Naples

"Johannes!" the voice cut through the noises of the crowded market. "Johannes! It is you! How long has it been?"

Johannes found himself facing a familiar man, one Jakob Witterwald.

"Ah, Jakob. So you have managed to stay out of jail?"

"Yes, yes. So have you, I see. Come, old friend. There is an inn down here with the best beer." In a lower voice Jakob added, "They have a room where two old friends can talk alone."

Smiling, Johannes motioned for Jakob to lead the way. They walked to the inn, Jakob chattering on about his relatives, the weather, the price of tobacco, and other meaningless things. Once they were settled in the inn's back room Jakob became serious.

"The last that I heard, you were headed to that place – Grantville. The town full of demons, wizards, witches, and all manner of magic."

"Old news, Jakob. Old news. I did go to Grantville. There wasn't a single wizard or demon in sight. In fact, I spent all of last year there."

"Ah! No demons or wizards. No magic, either?" Jakob sounded wistful. "I've been working a neat little scam based on 'Grantville Magic.' Tell me about the place and I'll have some nice hooks for my scam."

"You would do well to drop it. Too many people know the truth about Grantville's 'wizards.' Unless you stick to backward villages that will trip you up." Johannes shook his head. "There is no money to be made in such places."

"No… true." Jakob shrugged. "Tell me about Grantville anyway. You ar e looking prosperous. Whatever scam you've been running is profitable."

Johannes grinned. "Would you believe that I spent my time in Grantville doing honest work?" He lit his pipe and began to talk.

Well into the evening Johannes pulled out the photo of the mask of King Tutankhamun. Jakob's eyes glittered. Once the up-time notebook was unwrapped and the rest of the pictures displayed Jakob was hooked. He leafed carefully through, asking Johannes to translate, asking questions.

Johannes considered his luck. Jakob had contacts in places Johannes didn't. The two of them had run several successful swindles together. Given the right clothes Witterwald made a convincing professor. There was a certain noble Italian with more wealth than brains…

"Why are you just conning for pocket change?" Jakob suddenly asked. "There is a king's ransom in gold sitting in this tomb. Sitting there, waiting for someone to come along and take it."

The thought stunned Johannes for a moment. He shook his head, answering cautiously. "Do you have any idea how heavy a solid gold coffin is? Or how difficult it would be to move it?"

"Certainly. But it could be melted down. Gold bars are heavy but easier to manage." Witterwald thumped his finger on a picture of several small gold items. "These pieces alone would pay for the trip."

"But Egypt is closed to outsiders." The pictures appeared to dance in the candlelight, beckoning to Johannes.

"When has such a prohibition stopped either of us? I know a man, a Muslim, a wealthy merchant."

There was little doubt Jakob did know such a man. There wasn't a port in the Mediterranean that Jakob hadn't sailed into.

"Will he help us? Say for ten percent?"

"We split the rest evenly?"

"I get fifty percent. You get forty and your Muslim friend gets ten. I discovered this. I researched it and I spent the time learning enough English to understand what is in the notebook. Without my work, you would have nothing."

Witterwald looked mulish for a moment. He sighed, shook his head and replied. "Granted. You get fifty percent. I agree. You have the knowledge to find this tomb and that is worth half. I'll take forty percent. Ali gets ten percent. Done?"

"Done."

The inn by the docks was dim, dingy, and smelled of rotten fish mixed with tobacco smoke. A lack of windows and the few lamps did little to relieve the dimness. The smells exuded from the clothes and bodies of the men siting around smoking, drinking, and gossiping. Johannes thought it wasn't the worst inn he had seen, but it came close. This place didn't seem to fit with Jakob's description of the man they were to meet here, either. Ali El-Rahman was supposedly a wealthy merchant and a Muslim. Both made him a most unlikely client of this inn.

The man Jakob finally greeted didn't look like a wealthy merchant. He did look like an Arab with his dusky skin, dark hair, and close-cropped beard tracing his jaw line. The dirty, tattered clothing didn't fit a wealthy Arab merchant's dress. The man was as thin as a starving dog. Most merchants, especially the wealthy ones, looked far from starving. Johannes grinned. Ali El-Rahman probably was an Arab but Johannes would bet his last florin the man was no more a respectable merchant than Jakob or himself. All the better! Johannes understood rogues.

A little silver got the three "merchants" the use of a back room. With a flourish Johannes produced the up-time notebook and the picture of King Tut's coffin. In the flurry of speech that followed El-Rahman proved to speak acceptable Spanish. That was good. Johannes didn't want to be forced to depend upon anyone, not even an old acquaintance like Jakob, for translations.

In minutes a deal was struck. Ali would arrange passage on a Greek ship bound for Alexandria. "The Greeks hate Turks," Ali explained. "The Greeks won't care if we're all good Muslims or infidels. In Alexandria, the bey uses Turkish troops for customs and to stop infidels from landing. Even if the Greek sailors suspect you two aren't Arabs, they won't tell the Turks."

Summer, 1634, Alexandria

The air was breathlessly hot but Johannes and Jakob sat shut up in the small ship's cabin, not daring to go out on deck. Turkish patrols regularly swept the docks, collecting taxes and tributes and looking for illegal activities and unauthorized infidels. If caught the best they could expect was to be fined and shipped out. At worst they might be sold as slaves. On their last stop they'd learned that anyone claiming to be an up-timer would automatically be put to death if found anywhere within the Ottoman Empire. The idea that the local powers might considered possession of up-time materials the same as claiming to be an up-timer worried Johannes.

Johannes and Jakob had let their beards grow on the voyage and both were sunburned enough to pass for Arabs at a distance. Unfortunately, the only words either knew in Arabic were "Insallah" – hardly enough to stand up to an interrogation. Ali had been unexpectedly reluctant to teach them anything more.

Ali had explained that while Egypt was divided into twenty-four districts, each overseen by a Mameluke bey, the Sheikh al Balad was the most powerful of the beys and should be able to ease their way. The Arab was off the ship seeking out the Sheikh's men to present the requisite bribes. Johannes wondered about Ali and the bribes. The more Jakob swore Ali was trustworthy, the more Johannes wondered.

Johannes had been forced to reconsider the group's financial resources in light of all the bribes that would have to be paid out. He hoped what they had would be enough to pay for a boat to take them up the Nile and leave enough for the bribes they would need when they found the tomb.

Fall, 1634

They had come so far – and now this! The very rocks seemed to mock them. Dry brown stones rested on more dry brown stones along the narrow and twisting little valleys. The lifeless valleys all twisted away from the river. Each had little side branches, equally lifeless, twisting off endlessly. Everywhere the cliffs were riven in wild patterns of cracks. The sun made the shadows darker by contrast. Here, away from the river, even a trace of green was missing.

Johannes wiped sweat from his face on the sleeve of his filthy galabeeyah. In Alexandria, there had been many men in European dress. Ali had explained that some infidel merchants and such were allowed within the city. He had warned them that they needed to visit a market and find local clothing before leaving the city. Johannes demurred, concerned about the lightness of his purse.

Ali's advice had proved correct immediately outside the city. Their European clothes stood out and attracted unwanted attention from every quarter. Coming across three Egyptian peasants, Ali had offered a pair of copper coins and the natives cheerfully stripped off their dirty robes. The Egyptians offered their loin cloths for another copper coin, but even Ali couldn't bring himself to take up that offer. He had given them a copper for their tattered and filthy turbans.

Johannes sat on a large rock and stared at the barren hillsides. Jakob was wandering in circles, staring up at the lifeless cliffs and cursing. Ali simply sat silently in a sliver of shade from a boulder. Johannes wondered if this valley, the fourth they had looked at, was the right one. It had all been there, buried in the up-timer notebook. Several clippings commented on the barrenness and that many of the tombs had been nearly invisible, hidden among cracks and fissures. It was the pictures, the photographs, that had fooled him. All those neat and tidy up-time roads and cleared tomb entrances with staircases and large signs. He'd known not to expect the signs or paved roads. Yet those pictures had beguiled him into ignoring the words.

All of it was in the notebook he had stolen and so carefully carried all this way. The maps in the notebook made it look simple. But now, here in the actual place, Johannes realized the difference between the photographs, maps made in the twentieth century and the reality of seventeen-century Egypt. On the maps it was so easy – "This is the tomb of Ramesses II and here is the tomb of King Tutankhamun." But the neat little dot on the map didn't help him much. Was the Ramesses tomb on the slope just in front of him, or under that pile of rocks to his left? Or was it down the way where Jakob was pacing? Or was it in a completely different valley? The maps didn't show enough details. The photographs were no better. Nothing in them matched what was here.

They might not even be in the right place along the Nile. The ruins across the river should be the temples of Luxor, but he wasn't certain. Giza had been the last place he had been able to match the notebook's information with seventeenth century Egypt. Except – the pyramids looked different. With the help of one article he finally figured out that the difference was the lack of large holes in one pyramid. Somebody had blown huge holes in the side of it before the photographs were taken.

Despite the year he had spent in Grantville learning English, Johannes found it difficult to understand many things in the notebook. He realized that, except for the small section on the pyramids, the notebook held little information about the rest of Egypt. Most of the clippings and articles focused on the Valley of the Kings and King Tutankhamun's tomb.

Nothing in the notebook warned him that Egypt was full of ruins. All the way up the river, they had seen ruins. None matched the photographs in the notebook. Nor did the notebook have anything to say about all the town's names being different. One page did show a map with the village and town names as they had been in Roman times and what they were called in the twentieth century. Once past Giza, the names didn't match either set.

Discouraged, they pressed on, grimly searching each major ruin for clues. A week ago, wondering amongst the ruins on the east side of the river, Johannes had found a section of wall that seemed to match one of the pictures labeled "Temple of Luxor." But they could not be certain it really was. Here, unlike at the pyramids, the ruins were in worse shape than the pictures showed.

Frustrated, Johannes had gone over the entire notebook again. He had even re-read the handwritten list stuffed in the back pocket. It was a list of things needed for an expedition to the Valley of the Kings. Carefully written in pencil it listed shovels, tents, canteens, a compass, and such. Three different hands had written it; the only one he could read easily was his nephew Wilhelm's. Boys they might be. but one of them was pretty sharp for at the bottom was the entry "Money for bribes." Of more use to him were several pages stuck between the photographs and clippings. These pages were Wilhelm's notes in a mixture of German and English. A note stuck behind the section on Luxor had the telltale line "the temples were rebuilt… "

So here they were, highly detailed maps in hand, but not knowing where they were. If the ruins across the river were the Luxor temples then the Valley of the Kings should be found here, directly across the river. If they could figure out which of the featureless wadis was the Valley of the Kings and if they could find the right tomb in the valley, then the maps should make sense…

"There are a couple of openings, Johannes. There's one just over there and another there," Jakob shouted, hope tingeing his voice.

The three men scrambled up the loose scree and into a low, dark entrance. Johannes grinned, his heart racing. It was a tomb entrance! The rock around them had been carved out. If they could identify which one it was the map should at least tell them if the Ramesses tomb was to the east or west of it. The three men lit candles and crawled into the darkness. Half an hour later, filthy and exhausted, they crawled out. It was a tomb, a tomb filled almost to the roof with sand and rocks and having not a single painting to match with the pictures. After a rest the trio tackled the other tomb. This one, higher on the slope, wasn't so full of debris and there were some paintings visible. Carefully Johannes compared the photographs with what he could see by candlelight. Again nothing matched.

Johannes brushed the dust gently with his fingertips. "Here, Jakob, hold the candle closer. Careful you don't drip wax on the photograph again!"

"Hey! Look there!" Jakob yelped in Johannes's ear. "These figures match!"

"And," Johannes sighed, "the rest don't."

"So it isn't the right tomb?" Jakob didn't bother to hide his disappointment.

"Maybe not… I think it might be the name of a relative." Brushing past the other man, Johannes crawled toward the tomb's entrance. In a little patch of sunlight, he flipped through the notebook, searching for a half-remembered picture. He found it and peered at it and then read the paragraph below it. Hope soared in him and he re-read the relevant passage. A noise from outside in the wadi barely registered. He crawled back to the painted wall.

"Look, Jakob. These people match this photograph. That one is the pharaoh and this is his queen." His voice rose with his hopes. "This is the queen's tomb, not the king's. That's why the cartouche doesn't match. We're in the Valley of the Queens!"

"So now we can find this King Tut's tomb and all that gold?" Jakob was grinning widely

"Yes… that tomb is in another valley but now… now I can find the right valley. Put out the candle. We don't have many and we need to save them." Jakob complied, plunging the two men and the tomb into twilight relieved only by the light coming from the entrance. Without a word, Jakob began crawling toward that square of light.

Johannes eyed his companion thoughtfully. How far could he trust Jakob? They had known each other for years and run scams together without problems. Still… Lately Jakob had become very friendly with Ali. They often had their heads together, talking softly. Jakob claimed Ali was teaching him Arabic, but Johannes wondered. He was positive that neither Jakob nor Ali had any knowledge of English. The notebook was useless to either of them. However, once Johannes had identified the marker tombs and located the area where King Tut's tomb entrance was buried, the notebook would become irrelevant. Until then, he suspected his life might depend upon their inability to read the notebook.

Back in Alexandria he and Jakob had discussed when and how to end their partnership with Ali once the treasure was in hand. Neither of them saw any need to waste any share of the treasure on the Arab. Having seen the reality of Egypt, Johannes had revised his plans several times. They needed Ali and his Arabic language skills to get back to Alexandria. Perhaps it would be best to allow Ali to get on the ship with them. Accidents at sea were easily accomplished and left no inconvenient bodies. Johannes now wondered if Ali and Jakob were planning an accident for himself.

Perhaps he should sound out Ali. Jakob's strong back would be helpful in digging out King Tut's tomb. Helpful, but not absolutely necessary… And there were all these handy tombs in which to hide the body.

Jakob momentarily blocked the light exiting the tomb. He yelled something unintelligible but Johannes paid no attention. He was deep in thoughts of double-cross.

Crawling from the darkness into the bright sunlight blinded Johannes. When hands grabbed his arms, he thought Jakob and Ali had decided to put their own murder plan into action. His vision cleared enough to let him see the wadi floor below the tomb.

Ali and Jakob were on their knees, each held by two large men. Ali was pleading frantically. Jakob had the look of a stunned ox. A number of riders surrounded them. The riders, Johannes realized with dread, were the Sheikh al Balad's Turks.

The pair of large Turks holding his arms threw Johannes down the slope. Skidding on his back, he struggled to stop his slide. If he could evade the men waiting below and make it to that other tomb…

Another pair of Turks grabbed him, hustled him the rest of the way down the slope and slammed him to his knees. Someone grabbed Johannes's hair and yanked his head up so that he looked into the face of a richly-dressed man mounted on a magnificent white horse. Something slithered down the scree and the white horse danced and kicked at it. Michael Tyler's notebook broke open and the pages flew about. Several of the Turks' horses shied at the flurry of paper. The Turks' leader curbed his horse's restiveness easily, never taking his eyes off Johannes.

Three Turks scrambled about, grabbing the loose pages. One of them carried the notebook and rescued pages to the leader with the air of a man handling filth. The leader looked away from Johannes briefly. He flicked several pages with his whip. He snarled something at the man holding the notebook. The notebook dropped and the Turk soldier kicked it away. He knelt and scrubbed his hands with sand.

The Turk's leader said a few words and the others replied with a shout of "Insallah!"

Ali burst into a loud wavering wail.

The Turk's leader smiled down at Johannes and gestured. Johannes's head was shoved forward, his ragged turban pulled off and dropped in front of him.

The last words Johannes heard, enunciated clearly in Spanish, were "You are infidels. We do not tolerate infidels."