Tofi hurried to the kitchen, ladled the last of the soup into a deep bowl, sliced several hunks of bread, and set everything on a tray. He took the narrow stair to the garret in the tower. At a cramped landing he knocked twice and went in.
The room was circular, a great window set at its center beside an astronomical rig. Bookcases crowded the walls, crammed chaotically with volumes, papers, and scrolls. Books were everywhere; notes and notebooks carpeted the floor. In the middle stood a table buried in tomes and loose sheets, a computer monitor jutting above the paper-sea. Bent over a notebook, writing, sat his uncle Wolfram: an elf with red hair, a stray lock falling over his broad forehead, which he brushed aside now and then as he worked. Steel frames perched on his nose; he wore a neatly trimmed moustache. He co-owned the tavern with his sister, who handled almost everything; Wolfram preferred the solitude of his study to any accounting. He loathed the racket, and he loathed drink and the reek of tobacco. As Tofi entered, Wolfram was finishing a paragraph and cross-checking a battered volume.
"I've brought your supper, Uncle," Tofi announced.
Wolfram peered over his glasses at his nephew.
"Supper? What time—" he glanced at the wall clock. "Heavens, past midnight. Are we closed?"
"We're getting there," Tofi said, setting the bowl on the desk. He peered at the papers. "What are you studying, Uncle?"
"Codes and symbols," Wolfram replied. "I'm trying to find my Rosetta Stone for the writings of Balakan."
"Rosetta Stone?" Tofi echoed.
Wolfram leaned back, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes between thumb and forefinger.
"On the other side," he began, "a man named Champollion sought to decipher the script of a very ancient civilization. After years of work, he did it—with a stone inscribed in three languages…"
Tofi listened, eyes wandering over the chaotic desk: equations, sketches, maps, notebooks. Among the piles lay an old book that caught his eye—grey boards with a brown panel framed in Art Deco motifs, badly worn, some pages loose or torn, the title's letters faded to a pallid ghost. He picked it up and read: The Wake on the Somme: The Record of a Forgotten Episode. Rare volumes were no novelty; his uncle collected books from both sides—esoteric, historical, mythological, and the lore of ancient civilizations. Laulak did not share the enthusiasm; she constantly wrestled the tavern accounts into the black and watched his spending with hawk-eyed care. Tofi leafed through the yellowed pages—engravings, cultural plates—then paused over illustrations bearing elvish symbols, each annotated in Wolfram's hand.
"And this one?" Tofi asked.
Wolfram reached for the book.
"Ah—this is interesting," he said, taking it. "It's by a man from Utgard who devoted his life to studying us after finding a rock fragment with elvish symbols. From that shard he began deciphering documents no one had been able to read—very much like Champollion. These proofs convinced him there had been a people forgotten by his world's history, so he hunted their traces through its ancient civilizations. He wrote this book." Wolfram patted the cover. "Luckily for us—and sadly for him—no one believed him." He set it down. "It's incomplete, but still very useful to my work on Balakan."
Tofi pursed his lips and nodded. His eye fell on a small, watch-sized box—brown, half-buried under papers. He drew it out. The label, in red letters, read:
Zonapiac
Zonapiac was a marketplace that sold all manner of goods from across Aternum—and, through a shadowy network of Utgard sellers, things from the far side of the sun as well, many of them illicit.
"What's this?" Tofi asked, prying at it.
"Don't touch that," Wolfram snapped, snatching it back.
"What is it?"
"Something… I bought."
"Uncle—did you shop online?" Tofi sounded genuinely surprised.
Wolfram's mouth tugged into a conspirator's smile.
"Hush," he said. "You know I'm hopeless at such things. The miller's boy did the ordering. They brought it from the other side—but don't you dare tell your mother; it cost me good silver."
Tofi's brows shot up. Laulak would not approve—anything bought for Wolfram's endless quest to unravel the universe of the demon-philosopher Balakan earned instant suspicion.
"You know Mother can't be fooled. She'll find out."
Wolfram never could hide anything from those curious eyes. He sighed in surrender.
"Very well—but it's a secret." He drew the object from the box and set it among the papers.
It was a round device, bronze in hue, with a central disk of black glass circled by archaic symbols and tiny fish and dolphin figures. Three small cylinders sat around the rim. Fine grooves ran along its face; on the exposed side of the middle cylinder was a small socket. The whole piece bore the wear of great age, with a dusting of mineral residue—as if it had once lain on a seabed.
"What is it?" Tofi whispered.
"This, Tofi, is an enigmatic instrument," Wolfram said. "According to old accounts, such devices were used long ago by a vanished people called the Spoutnik."
"Is it ancient?"
"Very ancient. Thousands upon thousands of years."
Tofi lifted it, awestruck by the age in his hands.
"Wow… How did you get it?"
Wolfram pressed his lips.
"One day I was scouring the Net for leads, and up it popped—listed for sale on Zonapiac," he said. "Too great a temptation. I'd just been reading a chapter about relics of a strange sea-faring civilization on the other side… and there it was—for sale."
He opened the book to a yellow-tabbed page: a crude engraving of an object much like the one in Tofi's hand.
"The same piece?" Tofi breathed.
"Judge for yourself," Wolfram said.
Tofi examined the device, then glanced at the torn shipping label on the box.
"'Arroyo Seco,'" he read. "Where's that?"
"How should I know? Somewhere in the Russias, the Perus, or the Gauls," Wolfram said dryly. "In any case, I bought it."
"What's its story?"
"According to ancient chronicles," Wolfram began—he loved sharing his research with the one person who would always listen—"Balakan gifted one of these to the Spoutnik when they chose to journey through the cosmos after Ragnarök, using rocket-propulsion from ages past."
He showed Tofi an engraving of an ancient vessel lifting from a world.
"They set out, never to return," Wolfram went on. "But they didn't get far. On a frozen moon in the outer system they met a race of sea-demons who enslaved them for their own conquest—and planned an invasion of Midgard. Fortunately, the Spoutnik rebelled. Battle broke out aboard the craft, and when they passed near Utgard, the ship crashed. That would have been the end—yet," he tapped the old book, "as this author argues, there's evidence the Spoutnik and the Ma'zuules both survived the wreck and influenced local cultures—for good or ill. In these islands, where a piece like this was found, their palaces' frescoes show the Ma'zuules worshiped as gods—terrible deities demanding human sacrifice in exchange for… abundant fishing, upon which the civilization's success depended." He flipped to plates of Minoan-like murals: men hauling nets brimming with fish, swimmers among sea-creatures, ships sailing to trade with exotic lands.
"How did it work?" Tofi asked, hunger for knowledge bright in his eyes.
"There's much speculation and legendary muddle," Wolfram said, scratching his chin. "Some say the devices let them commune with Balakan and other sage-philosophers when needed; others claim they opened portals—if you had a special key to activate them. As for the Ma'zuules, perhaps they used them to call cosmic gods or their own demons. It's conjecture."
"And the Spoutnik?" Tofi pressed.
"Lost. Perhaps they mingled with the peoples of this world, as the author surmises; perhaps they died out."
Wolfram slipped the device back into its box.
"It's a fascinating enigma. But do not—under any circumstances—tell your mother."
"I think it's amazing," Tofi said. "Maybe we could cross over and look for the key…"
"I wish," Wolfram said. "First we'd need more information about its whereabouts. Even if we found it, we wouldn't know how to use it—technology lost for thousands upon thousands of years. That's why I'm trying to decipher these documents. And in any case, I can't cross—the movement needs me here."
Tofi peered into the box at the dim, enigmatic gleam. He had more questions, but his mother's voice cut through the stairwell.
"Tofi! I need you—now!" Laulak's high call rang up.
"I believe your sergeant is calling," Wolfram murmured.
Tofi smiled and hurried down the steps.
"Heavens, Tofi," Laulak said. "It's late, and you're up there daydreaming with Wolfram. Come—let's get this floor done." She thrust him a broom and a dustpan.
"I was talking with Uncle," Tofi protested. "He told me about Balakan—and that he's looking for his Rosetta Stone. And the legend of a wandering people called—"
"Tofi," Laulak cut in. "Sweep. Then we all go to bed."
He set to work, gathered mugs at the back, and began to sweep beneath the tables. A shadow made him start. In the corner, legs crossed, a pipe between his teeth, sat a stranger—an elf with dark hair, a mountaineer's cap, and the rough kit to match. He held a tankard in one hand.
"Did I startle you?" the man asked.
"I didn't expect anyone," Tofi said. "We're closed."
"So I gathered," the man replied. "I'll finish this and be off. Long road ahead—and it looks like a storm." A thunderclap punctuated his words.
"There's always a storm," Tofi said.
"So there is… Tell me, lad—are you the owner's son?"
Tofi shook his head.
"No. I'm his nephew. My father died when I was born."
"By chance—what's your family name?" the stranger asked.
"Orantek. My uncle owns the place—and he painted the pictures you see around you," Tofi said.
The stranger smiled.
"Very talented indeed," he said, almost whistling the words.
Laulak came to collect the last mugs.
"Tofi, you haven't swept. It's filthy under the tables—and someone's been sick in the corner." She stopped short when she saw the stranger, set the tray down. "What's this?"
"The gentleman is finishing his drink," Tofi said.
"We're closed," Laulak replied. "Please come back tomorrow."
The man's expression turned wry—enough to set Laulak on edge. He drained the tankard and rose—tall, and plainly armed.
"My thanks for your hospitality," he said, and headed for the door. The golem hurried after him and, once he was out, slid the bolt.
Laulak frowned, sighed.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Let's finish."
Outside, the stranger descended the porch and walked away along the gravel path toward the road, leaving the tavern behind. He stopped beneath tall trees as the rain began, took out a mobile device, and dialed.
"Maroon here," he said. "Confirmed: the proprietors of the Highland Ghost are none other than the Hindler siblings."
Static crackled; a man's voice replied:
"Praetorian Guard here. Confirmed. We're moving on the target. Make sure they don't flee."
The man nodded, checked inside his long mountain cloak, and drew a plasma dart-stinger. He was about to return to the tavern when a brutal blow struck the back of his head. Agent Maroon crashed to the ground, unconscious.
Behind him stood Momta, a heavy cudgel in his right hand. His face still bore the stupor of drink—but the crack had sobered him. Clumsily, he pulled a mobile from his pocket and dialed.
"We've got a situation," Momta slurred. "The Praetorian Guard is on its way."