The crowd on the street was sparse-nothing like the jostling, hot mob around the port or on one of the big avenues-and there were no official buildings, only a small temple with a stepped facade. Shirin frowned. Did the woman just go home? Or is the Order's house a hidden one? Then she remembered the Duchess' house in Rome-also on a street of houses, very quiet, unassuming. No grand temple here. Just a domus beside a sun-dappled street.
She thought of going to the blank door and knocking. Her stomach grumbled in response. I am hungry. She dabbed water from the edge of her mouth with her sleeve, then continued down the street, counting doorways. The little avenue turned and Shirin found herself at the edge of a small square. The graceful pillars of a small, neighborhood temple drew her attention for a moment, but then the smell of roasting meat made her lithe neck turn. A hostelry sat opposite the decrepit temple and men and women were eating under an arbor of vines and crosshatched slats.
Without thinking, Shirin entered the hostelry and sat, drawing back her hood, slumping in relief against the cool bricks of the ancient wall. Despite her weariness, she was careful to place her things close at hand, half-hidden under the cloak. The proprietor appeared as Shirin tucked in a fraying edge of cloth.
"Noble lady," the man said, brisk in manner, dark brown eyes flitting over her travel-stained cloak and well-made but threadbare clothing. She could feel him gauging her, finding her wanting. "Wine? There is roast mutton, some lentils…"
"That will be fine," she said, giving him a reserved look. She caught sight of an amulet hanging around his neck: horns and a bull's head. He bowed, waiting impatiently while Shirin pressed two coins into his hand. The innkeeper hurried off, sandals slapping sharply on the tiled floor. The Khazar woman relaxed again, wondering if there were private rooms to eat, either above the taverna or nearby. From this place, she could see the entrance to the little street, but no more.
"Here you are." The innkeeper returned with a platter and slid wooden bowls of olives, shelled nuts, steaming hot lentils and a slab of mutton onto the table in front of her. "You've a knife?"
"Yes," Shirin said, her stomach stabbing with pangs of hunger. Despite an urgent desire to tear into the meat, she raised the wine cup and spilled a little on the floor. "For the bull and the sun," she whispered, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. The words woke a genuine smile and the man bowed in proper greeting. Shirin made a seated bow in return, waiting until he had bustled back inside before she slipped out her knife and cut a slab of spiced meat for herself.
A familiar accent roused Shirin from a warm doze. She was lying on a bench on the roof of the inn, under flower- and vine-heavy trellises, her cloak as a blanket, a borrowed basket as a pillow. Men clattered up the stairs, muttering in low tones. Shirin's eyes opened, then settled to bare slits. Two men appeared in the stairwell, bent under heavy burdens. Dust tickled her nose and she smelled the desert, camels, sweat and chipped limestone. Laborers? Speaking Greek with Persian accents-not likely!
"Ah, now," a man said, the harder, sharper Azeri accent clear in his voice. "Someone's taken my spot." Shirin forced herself to remain still, keeping her breathing even and measured, her lips slightly parted, as if in deep sleep.
"Shhh…" hissed the other man, groaning as he rolled the wrapped bundle from his shoulders onto the wooden floor. There was a clunking sound, from stone or metal. "Master Theon said a priestess was resting up here."
"Huh." Shirin heard the first man's tunic rustle, his boots scrape on the floor as he turned away. "She'll keep me warm tonight, then, if she's still here!"
The stairwell muffled the other man's response as he descended. Shirin waited a dozen heartbeats, then opened her eyes. The rooftop terrace was empty save for the benches and pallets on the floor-and two heavy, dusty bundles of cloth, bound with rope. Shirin rolled silently from the bench, gathering up her bag and cloak. She padded to the bundles, listening intently for any footstep on the stairs. Heavy, yellow dust trickled out of creases in the canvas wrapping. A soft nudge with her foot was rewarded with the clink of metal on metal. Kneeling beside the mysterious package, Shirin's nostrils flared. Oiled metal, she recognized, hot from the sun, dusty and dirty. Her fingers traced the outline of a boot print on the weathered boards of the floor. Black mud lay scattered at the head of the stairs. The river, she mused, then stood, drawing the cloak around her, covering her face. But the packages are not damp-they came by boat?
Shirin took a breath, settling her nerves, then stepped down the stairs, treading lightly. The upper floor of the inn was empty and she paused on the stairs before entering the common room.
The big main room was filled with noise-men were banging their boots by the door, tan-colored cloaks streaked with clinging yellow dust hung from hooks, the innkeeper-Theon? — was handing out heavy red-and-black cups of watered wine. Shirin fell into a hunter's quiet stance, paused at the doorway, ready to enter, yet still outside the immediate perception of the soldiers crowding the room. There was no doubt these men were soldiers-Persian soldiers-with their long ringlets cropped in Roman fashion, their calloused hands raising cups in celebration of journey's end.
"A wasted trip," she heard, ears pricking up in recognition. A cultured voice, a smooth, powerful baritone-I know that voice, Shirin realized with a start-growled close by. Two men-one tall, broad shouldered, narrow-waisted; the other short and graying, with a square head cocked in an attitude of listening. "A week digging in the dust-for nothing! Some chipped pieces of stone, a broken bowl…"
"My lord," answered the shorter man, his back to the stairs, "we know the weapon is no longer in Abydos. The tomb of Nemathapi was looted long ago…" He sighed, shoulders rising in despair. "But I marked some scratching on the wall, inside the great chamber. Did you see the marks?"
"I saw dust and spiderwebs and crumbling plaster," answered the taller man. Again, Shirin felt a start, hearing long-familiar tones in the voice. He sounds, she realized with a chill, like my husband. "No more. What did you see, Artabanus?"
"Let me show you," the shorter man said, moving towards the window and an empty table. Paper rustled and Shirin, bending down a little to peer into the room, saw him unroll a scrap of paper covered with markings. Then the little man and the big Persian were between her and the scroll.
Cursing softly, Shirin backed up, arranged herself, the hood down over most of her face, the rest veiled, then stepped down into the room, head raised. The soldiers were drinking and peering out the windows at a bevy of maids drawing water from the public fountain. Shirin drifted across the room, as if looking for the innkeeper, until she could see between the hands and arms of the two men bending over the table by the window.
The papyrus was covered with angular letters, drawn in black charcoal.
"My lady?" The man with the bull amulet hurried up, wiping beer foam from his hands with a cloth. "You're not disturbed by the racket, are you?"