of the
office." Then she added. "There are two others. Paper
pushers."
"And
what exactly did Governor Buchanan say I was doing?"
"Trying
to learn who caused the fire."
Hadrian
inwardly cursed Buchanan. Though he'd promised Hadrian freedom to
conduct his investigation, he still had to have his watcher. Hadrian
pointed to the door. "Go back to Government House. In a few days
I'll come tell you what I found."
The
young woman looked at the floor as she stepped back over the rope and
shut the heavy door behind her. He frowned, then glanced at the book
still in his hands and thought of the exiles. He would have to get
word of Jonah's death to them, even if it meant making the arduous
trip himself. Mail to the camps was forbidden, the trail there often
patrolled to discourage travelers.
He
worked feverishly, mindful of the midday funeral, looking at every
loose paper, leafing through every book for the slips Jonah often set
between pages. There were notes for manufacturing water pipes and
household plumbing systems, designs for building a steam laundry,
even a steam-powered printing press. Yet there was no sign of the
rest of Jonah's secret journal, no pile of layered ashes where it
might have been burnt.
He
paced around the chamber, absently restoring more fallen objects to
their shelves, then paused and turned back to gaze at the desk with
new realization. Jonah had known the governor wanted his secret
chronicle. He would not have kept it in the library.
His
old friend had loved games. Once on Hadrian's birthday he'd designed
a map with the location of little gifts indicated solely by Latin
riddles. Stumbling through the mess underfoot, he absently kicked a
shard of pottery under the desk.
Kneeling
to retrieve it, he glanced up under the tabletop, saw words, and
turned on his back to read them. He recalled helping build the
oversized worktable years earlier out of wood salvaged from shipping
crates. The container ship they'd discovered wrecked on the coast had
provided most of the colony's early salvage. Several sets of words
were scattered across the underside of the table, this end up. lift
here. Korean shipping company. And a long set, in black like the
others, but in smaller letters of what appeared to be an Eastern
European alphabet. No. They were backward. A casual observer would
have dismissed them as vestiges of some foreign tongue gone dead. But
this tongue wasn't dead in Carthage, not so long as Hadrian lived.
The words were in Latin. He found a piece of broken mirror and laid
it on the floor to read the words reflected, quaere verum imprimis.
Seek truth among the first things. The thrill of the discovery died,
giving way to despair again. Jonah's strange humor was going to doom
Hadrian's search before he got truly started.
In
the distance a bell began to peal, calling citizens to the funeral.
Hadrian darted out the door so quickly he almost missed the shadow
that followed him down the stairs.
"You!"
he exclaimed to Sergeant Waller. "I told you there was a
mistake. Go back to your office."
The
policewoman straightened. "I don't know why I am being
punished," she said. "But I do know I am not permitted to
abandon my assignment."
"Punished?"
Waller
looked toward her feet as she replied. "You are a known
criminal. Not just a criminal. A saboteur, a dissident," she
added, as if that was his greatest crime of all. "Everyone in
the corps knows the governor has a file on you."
"Why
would you be punished for leaving when I ordered you to?"
"I
failed my last assignment. If I fail another, Lieutenant Kenton will
have me mucking out the government stables for the next six months."
"Lieutenant?
Since when?"
"Since
yesterday."
Hadrian
winced at the news. "I'm supposed to feel sorry for you because
you were sent to spy on me?"
"If
I help you in any real way, the governor will pronounce me a
conspirator too. If I don't help you, he'll say I disobeyed him."
"So
what will you do?"
"Pretend
to help you?" the sergeant
office." Then she added. "There are two others. Paper
pushers."
"And
what exactly did Governor Buchanan say I was doing?"
"Trying
to learn who caused the fire."
Hadrian
inwardly cursed Buchanan. Though he'd promised Hadrian freedom to
conduct his investigation, he still had to have his watcher. Hadrian
pointed to the door. "Go back to Government House. In a few days
I'll come tell you what I found."
The
young woman looked at the floor as she stepped back over the rope and
shut the heavy door behind her. He frowned, then glanced at the book
still in his hands and thought of the exiles. He would have to get
word of Jonah's death to them, even if it meant making the arduous
trip himself. Mail to the camps was forbidden, the trail there often
patrolled to discourage travelers.
He
worked feverishly, mindful of the midday funeral, looking at every
loose paper, leafing through every book for the slips Jonah often set
between pages. There were notes for manufacturing water pipes and
household plumbing systems, designs for building a steam laundry,
even a steam-powered printing press. Yet there was no sign of the
rest of Jonah's secret journal, no pile of layered ashes where it
might have been burnt.
He
paced around the chamber, absently restoring more fallen objects to
their shelves, then paused and turned back to gaze at the desk with
new realization. Jonah had known the governor wanted his secret
chronicle. He would not have kept it in the library.
His
old friend had loved games. Once on Hadrian's birthday he'd designed
a map with the location of little gifts indicated solely by Latin
riddles. Stumbling through the mess underfoot, he absently kicked a
shard of pottery under the desk.
Kneeling
to retrieve it, he glanced up under the tabletop, saw words, and
turned on his back to read them. He recalled helping build the
oversized worktable years earlier out of wood salvaged from shipping
crates. The container ship they'd discovered wrecked on the coast had
provided most of the colony's early salvage. Several sets of words
were scattered across the underside of the table, this end up. lift
here. Korean shipping company. And a long set, in black like the
others, but in smaller letters of what appeared to be an Eastern
European alphabet. No. They were backward. A casual observer would
have dismissed them as vestiges of some foreign tongue gone dead. But
this tongue wasn't dead in Carthage, not so long as Hadrian lived.
The words were in Latin. He found a piece of broken mirror and laid
it on the floor to read the words reflected, quaere verum imprimis.
Seek truth among the first things. The thrill of the discovery died,
giving way to despair again. Jonah's strange humor was going to doom
Hadrian's search before he got truly started.
In
the distance a bell began to peal, calling citizens to the funeral.
Hadrian darted out the door so quickly he almost missed the shadow
that followed him down the stairs.
"You!"
he exclaimed to Sergeant Waller. "I told you there was a
mistake. Go back to your office."
The
policewoman straightened. "I don't know why I am being
punished," she said. "But I do know I am not permitted to
abandon my assignment."
"Punished?"
Waller
looked toward her feet as she replied. "You are a known
criminal. Not just a criminal. A saboteur, a dissident," she
added, as if that was his greatest crime of all. "Everyone in
the corps knows the governor has a file on you."
"Why
would you be punished for leaving when I ordered you to?"
"I
failed my last assignment. If I fail another, Lieutenant Kenton will
have me mucking out the government stables for the next six months."
"Lieutenant?
Since when?"
"Since
yesterday."
Hadrian
winced at the news. "I'm supposed to feel sorry for you because
you were sent to spy on me?"
"If
I help you in any real way, the governor will pronounce me a
conspirator too. If I don't help you, he'll say I disobeyed him."
"So
what will you do?"
"Pretend
to help you?" the sergeant
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