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archaeologist or a museum would slaver over the mattresses, but it wouldn’t be worth the effort to load them on the Castel . They were too fragile, and none of the collectors she sold to would waste a glance at them.
    A large, wooden door opened into a wide corridor. From the little debris, it looked like she could use the grav sled. That was a stroke of luck, since the last scan indicated a complex extending deep into the mountain.
    It took Asrial several days to map her way to the upper levels, in part because she refused to camp inside and had to retrace her path each day. Though the quake hadn’t wreaked much damage in the lower levels, she didn’t want to risk getting trapped underground while she slept. But also because the complex was that large—practically an entire city in itself.
    She started to search in earnest at the top. Majians seemed to associate altitude with power. The best pickings were invariably in the highest chambers. Though she kept an eye out for exceptions to the rule, going straight to the top was the most efficient use of her time. As she’d expected, the upper levels were a treasure trove, chamber upon chamber of artifacts, some tarnished by time, others gleaming like new.
    Typical of those in power to hoard the good stuff. She’d always wondered if that was the reason her father had been deposed: because he hadn’t been greedy. He’d chosen to abdicate the scepter rather than risk an internecine war pitting Lomidari against Lomidari that would devastate the planet. He’d allowed them to strip him of most of the Dilaryn holdings, which they claimed were lands of the reis , not his personal property. Too idealistic to survive in yfreet-infested skies, her mother would have said, smiling. Nasri had compared Lomidar politics to a feeding frenzy of those horrific flying scavengers often enough that Asrial had looked for a vid of such an occasion. Watching the blood fest where only the most vicious yfreet emerged victorious made her regret pandering to her curiosity.
    She shrugged off her cynical mood. At least the Majians hadn’t taken their pretties with them when they fled or died out or whatever had happened to them.
    At the topmost level, Asrial left the grav sled in a large atrium that gave on to several floors. Here, the Majian ruling class’s taste for lavish surroundings took front and center. The sled’s lights revealed elaborate sculpture and statues with something of a conquering hero motif—dominant central figures overawing smaller, lesser, kneeling figures. Some archaeologists argued that they depicted worship of some deity, but she wasn’t convinced. She didn’t get a benevolent vibe from those scenes.
    Even the walls were decorated with murals of fantastical beasts and bewildering cities, their colors still bright despite the passage of time. The pigments were probably baked on, except she couldn’t find any seams. The murals looked to have been made as entire pieces—a monumental effort, if that was the case. And a pity, since a piece as wide as her hand would probably spark a bidding war.
    Say what some people might about Rim rats, she drew the line at defacing artwork. Finding some already in pieces was one thing, but having a hand in their destruction was something else entirely; in that much she could be true to her upbringing.
    She continued her exploration on foot. This stage required care. Too quick a passage could lead her to overlook some prize—or worse, unbalance and damage a rare pretty. Fortunately, her head lamp was strong enough to illuminate the darkest corners.
    Movement out of the corner of her eye startled Asrial. She crouched, ready to jump to safety, only to relax with a laugh at herself. It was just one of the flying creatures that filled Maj’s skies. Then her brain caught up and realized she was seeing spires, mountains, clouds . . . the Castel !
    How could that be? She didn’t feel any wind or cold. She hadn’t seen any windows in her