not be wearing the equipment webbing and pouches, or the mummified monkey’s hand strung on a leather cord around her neck. She puts her climbing harness back on over the leotard, dons the night vision goggles, then pulls a shoulder bag from the sack and stuffs her discarded overalls and helmet inside it.
“Okay, I think I’m ready, Duchess.”
Persephone checks her watch, a Seiko chronometer, synchronized to a broadcast time signal. “We are running late—ninety-six minutes to the conjunction.”
“Shit. Well, I suppose I’d better get moving, then.”
Johnny pulls out a pair of bent wires from his pocket and walks to the end wall. Whistling tunelessly he paces backwards, holding them before him; then, having found his distance, he switches direction and moves towards the middle of the floor. “Let’s see…just about here, I think.”
Persephone, who is watching from the gallery, narrows her eyes. “Fifty centimeters closer to the window.”
“If you say so, Duchess.” Johnny squats and begins to work at the parquet tiles. They form a beautifully polished herringbone pattern in rich mahogany, glued to the floorboards below with hot bitumen. With less than two hours to do the job, there’s no time for subtlety: Johnny systematically vandalizes them with the aid of a battery-powered jigsaw. First, he uses a cord to draw a circle a meter in diameter around his measurement point. Next, he carefully cuts a groove in the flooring.
Persephone, meanwhile, rolls the metal framework close to him. Then she pulls out a compact caulking gun, inserts a cylinder, and begins to draw a much larger circle on the floor around them. The oozing paste is silvery in the diffuse moonlight, gravid with metallic particles. She periodically pauses to draw arcane symbols around the outer perimeter. Once the circle is closed she retreats inside and then removes a ruggedized tablet computer from one of her pockets. It sports an expansion port, and this she attaches to the circle by a short cable.
“We’re locked in,” she announces calmly as Johnny pauses to empty the saw’s dust bag again. The inner circle is two-thirds cut through.
“This will take another five minutes.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a compact power screwdriver and a couple of attachment points, and screws them into the cut-out circle. Without looking up he threads a wire through the hook-and-eye attachments and fastens it to the metal frame. Then he picks up the saw and cuts out the rest of the circle. Another minute with a pry bar and then the hand-crank on the portable crane, and the disk of flooring is dangling on a wire.
“Allow me.” Persephone leans forward and shines a penlight into the dark recesses below the floorboards. Thick timber joists as strong as a ship’s yardarm run from side to side of the dusty under-floor space, half a meter apart; it stinks of mouse droppings and ancient history. About forty centimeters below the floor there is another surface—the ceiling of the Arbeitszimmer, the royal study.
She winces slightly at the thought of what she’s about to do to the gloriously paneled and painted interior of the royal suite. Mad King Ludwig bankrupted Bavaria building this castle; he spent over six million marks on it—close to half a billion euros in twenty-first-century currency. But there’s a job to be done, and the price of failure is even higher.
She reaches into the pouch on her left hip with one gloved hand and pulls forth a velvet bag. Opening it, she teases out a chain of bright-polished white gold, each link of which is encrusted with glistening emeralds. She lowers the bag by its chain over the dust-strewn roof below. It stirs slowly, dangling away from the vertical. “The amulet points to the warded containment,” she says quietly. “We are out of position—at least two meters, perhaps three. Pass me the hand drill.”
“Are you sure? It’s no bother to raise another lid—”
“It may not bother you
“Okay, I think I’m ready, Duchess.”
Persephone checks her watch, a Seiko chronometer, synchronized to a broadcast time signal. “We are running late—ninety-six minutes to the conjunction.”
“Shit. Well, I suppose I’d better get moving, then.”
Johnny pulls out a pair of bent wires from his pocket and walks to the end wall. Whistling tunelessly he paces backwards, holding them before him; then, having found his distance, he switches direction and moves towards the middle of the floor. “Let’s see…just about here, I think.”
Persephone, who is watching from the gallery, narrows her eyes. “Fifty centimeters closer to the window.”
“If you say so, Duchess.” Johnny squats and begins to work at the parquet tiles. They form a beautifully polished herringbone pattern in rich mahogany, glued to the floorboards below with hot bitumen. With less than two hours to do the job, there’s no time for subtlety: Johnny systematically vandalizes them with the aid of a battery-powered jigsaw. First, he uses a cord to draw a circle a meter in diameter around his measurement point. Next, he carefully cuts a groove in the flooring.
Persephone, meanwhile, rolls the metal framework close to him. Then she pulls out a compact caulking gun, inserts a cylinder, and begins to draw a much larger circle on the floor around them. The oozing paste is silvery in the diffuse moonlight, gravid with metallic particles. She periodically pauses to draw arcane symbols around the outer perimeter. Once the circle is closed she retreats inside and then removes a ruggedized tablet computer from one of her pockets. It sports an expansion port, and this she attaches to the circle by a short cable.
“We’re locked in,” she announces calmly as Johnny pauses to empty the saw’s dust bag again. The inner circle is two-thirds cut through.
“This will take another five minutes.” He reaches into a pocket, pulls out a compact power screwdriver and a couple of attachment points, and screws them into the cut-out circle. Without looking up he threads a wire through the hook-and-eye attachments and fastens it to the metal frame. Then he picks up the saw and cuts out the rest of the circle. Another minute with a pry bar and then the hand-crank on the portable crane, and the disk of flooring is dangling on a wire.
“Allow me.” Persephone leans forward and shines a penlight into the dark recesses below the floorboards. Thick timber joists as strong as a ship’s yardarm run from side to side of the dusty under-floor space, half a meter apart; it stinks of mouse droppings and ancient history. About forty centimeters below the floor there is another surface—the ceiling of the Arbeitszimmer, the royal study.
She winces slightly at the thought of what she’s about to do to the gloriously paneled and painted interior of the royal suite. Mad King Ludwig bankrupted Bavaria building this castle; he spent over six million marks on it—close to half a billion euros in twenty-first-century currency. But there’s a job to be done, and the price of failure is even higher.
She reaches into the pouch on her left hip with one gloved hand and pulls forth a velvet bag. Opening it, she teases out a chain of bright-polished white gold, each link of which is encrusted with glistening emeralds. She lowers the bag by its chain over the dust-strewn roof below. It stirs slowly, dangling away from the vertical. “The amulet points to the warded containment,” she says quietly. “We are out of position—at least two meters, perhaps three. Pass me the hand drill.”
“Are you sure? It’s no bother to raise another lid—”
“It may not bother you
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