The Archivist Read Free

want to get this over with before they can raise any kind of alarm.
    The thugs do not keep me waiting long; moments later, the first one turns into the alley, light glinting off a knife in his hand. The stocky, rather short man is one of the goons from the tavern.
    When he sees me, he dashes forward to close the gap between us. My staff is far shorter than the traditional Wing Chun pole form I learned while on retrieval in eastern Asia, but it will do. Just before he reaches me, I plant the end of my staff deep into his midriff and the air whooshes out of his lungs while the man folds over. His dropping chin meets the sharp upward thrust of the staff, and with a soft grunt, he flips and lands on his back at the feet of his friend, who is coming around the corner.
    Well, maybe not such a good friend. The taller, thinner, second man takes one glance down at his motionless companion, stares at me for a moment, then turns to run. He is too far away for me to reach, so hopefully reinforcements are not close at hand. Then I hear a soft whistle and something flashes past my ear to strike the man in the back of his head. He drops like a sack of flour. The whole encounter takes maybe three seconds.
    The only sound is a dog barking a block or two away, in response to the commotion.
    I turn back to Danae; she stands facing sideways like a baseball pitcher, a sling dangling behind her from her right hand. She quickly slips it off her finger and ties the weapon around her waist, settling the leather pouch back in place. Her suddenly fierce eyes lock onto mine, heading off any question that might consider crossing my lips.
    “Are they dead?” she asks, pointing with her chin toward the fallen men. Her tone is neutral, so I can’t tell whether she’s hopeful, concerned or just curious, but she clearly has no compassion for these guys.
    “No,” I reply after I quickly check them. When I pick up the knife, it turns out to be just a slender metal flask—probably something to keep him warm during a stakeout. Why the hell would the idiot charge me with a container of booze?
    “They’ll live, but I suspect they’ll keep their distance next time. Now, where do we meet your father?”
    * * *
    The house that Danae brings me to a few minutes later does not look impressive, at least in the dark. A small stone path leads from the street past a short rail fence up to a narrow porch sheltered by a small overhang, weather-beaten enough that I can see stars through the cover. But Danae’s home will certainly beat five days in the back of an open fishing vessel and six weeks in a hammock on that cramped sailing cargo ship.
    We enter, and Danae uses the single candle left burning to light several more, illuminating a large common room. To one side, a physician’s workbench stands against the wall, covered with implements, bottles and jars of cryptic substances. Next to it is a long dining table which obviously doubles as an examination platform, based on the small steps at one end.
    Like the tavern, the woodwork is rough but sturdy. On the other side of the room, several chairs are positioned around a fireplace that has a sizable bed of glowing embers inside it. Little else adorns the Spartan dwelling, but everything is clean and orderly.
    A door swings open on the other side of the room, revealing a gaunt man a little shorter than me, with a scraggly beard that is much more salt than pepper. He peers at me with quick, shiny eyes that are buried in a craggy face, and he cinches a rough-woven robe around his waist as he examines me from the doorway. Danae looks up from the lamp as it catches, and hurries over to him.
    “Papa! You should be resting.” She embraces him quickly, and then gestures toward me. “Here is the Archivist you told me to watch for.”
    He nods and steps forward, hand extended. “I’m Doc Kaufstetter, but everyone just calls me Doc. So you are the one Walecki said would come, bearing gifts.” His voice is rough, and the