One Night by Marsha Qualey Page A

Tell her she’ll get the very first copy.” A hug, kisses, then a grand sweeping turn back to the waiting crowd. Within seconds she had two wide-eyed fans in her arms and was preaching to them about reading.
    Prince Tom and I hustled away. I checked over my shoulder. No one followed, no one looked.
    “So what’s this rare map you hope to see?” I asked. I wasn’t really interested, but I wanted him to keep his mind off where he should be and what he should be doing. Keep him running, keep him happy, keep him busy until I could hand him over to Kit.
    “It was made for Charlemagne. It was a map of his empire, engraved on a silver plate. Charlemagne’s map, right here in Dakota City. We’re taking the bus?”
    “I’m a delivery girl, not a movie star, Prince Tom; this is my limo.” I pushed him on board. He stared at the fare box. I paid for us both. He fell into a seat as the bus lurched. I slipped in beside him and smiled. Ancient maps he knew all about. Public transportation apparently was a mystery. How in the world could he ever rule a country?
    As the bus rolled along, Prince Tom chatted about the map he hoped to see. I listened, sort of, while I thought about the university buildings, bus stops, and how to make sure we avoided the part of campus where they were holding the forum. If we got off at the student union and then took a campus shuttle… I planned it out while he talked about Romans and Franks, cartography, roads, empire building. I heard some—enough.
    Charlemagne: Now there was a king.
    *
    Bad news. When we got to the archives, the first thing we heard was that the one map Prince Tom most wanted to see was out of reach, couldn’t be viewed, not available to anyone. All this—but no reason why—crisply relayed by a student sitting behind the reception desk at the map library. I tried reasoning with her. “This is a public university,” I reminded her. “Everything’s free and open to the public.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” she said.
    “This place is empty,” I said. “No one would know.”
    “No way,” she said.
    Prince Tom tried charm bordering on seduction. That was a better idea, because the student-on-duty was obviously bored with sitting on a hard stool at a desk and reading Valley of the Dolls, which was all she had been doing when we arrived. The two of them bantered for a while. She was melting, but, still, no go. She tossed her head and giggled. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” she said. I swear I was about to shake her when Central Casting sent in a professor.
    I mean, this guy was it : worn tweed jacket, pockets bulging; tie askew; disheveled white hair; eyeglasses resting crookedly on his nose. And he wore red Converse sneakers.
    The girl sat primly at her post. “Dr. Larson. I didn’t expect you back after the seminar.” She turned to Tom and me. “Dr. Larson is the curator of the map collection. He’ll confirm what I’ve been saying.”
    The geezer looked us over. “Well?” he said.
    Tom said, “Dr. Ralph Larson?”
    Again: “Well?”
    “I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir. I studied at Oxford under Bulworth Smythe-Warwick.”
    “The hell you did!” The old guy whipped up so sharp and erect, I expected to hear bones snap. “You’re one of Bully’s students? Well, as I live and breathe.” He leaned forward and looked hard. “Not a Brit, are you?”
    “Raised in Texas,” Tom said. Truth as evasion; not a bad trick. He offered his hand. “Tom Buckhorn.”
    I didn’t laugh, which was a huge accomplishment, but I did nearly gag on spit. Buckhorn? Buckhorn? Okay, I could understand why he wouldn’t toss around Tomas Teronovich, but Buckhorn? Prince Tom turned slowly and stilled me with a regal stare.
    On the other hand, if you’ve got to hide behind an alias, why not choose a manly one?
    Professor Larson scanned Tom Buckhorn’s slick suit. “Your accent says Texas, but I’m not sure your clothing does. Oh, that’s probably my ignorance and