The King's Gold by Yxta Maya Murray

able to understand is why would a man’s name be his omen?”
    “And which name?” Erik asked. “He calls himself the Wolf, and the slave’s called—”
    “ His name,” I said suddenly. “His name .”
    From the table, I slowly lifted the last translucent page of the letter, with its strange, wide, curling signature: Antonio Beato Cagliostro Medici.

    Erik’s eyebrows skittered up his forehead as he looked at the wall. “Okay, I’m still getting up to speed here, but—that’s interesting.”
    “Erik.”
    “Do you think—”
    “Maybe. Can you—”
    “Yes—”
    “ Lift me—”
    We both stood up and practically ran over to the wall. Erik hip-butted Marco out of the way before crouching like an intramural wrestler, pulling down his straining jacket and extending his arms so that I could clamber on.
    “One, two, three, huff !” He hoisted me onto his shoulders.
    “Oh, dear Jesus Christ and Mary in Heaven,” Dr. Riccardi flamed, “you’re going to break something, you frightful idiots.”
    I reached up and placed the signature leaf onto the map. It fit the dimensions perfectly.
    “It’s like a transparency,” I cried. “And the signature, it’s tracing something—a route or some kind of diagram.”
    “Preposterous,” Dr. Riccardi thundered, then, looking at the map sideways, was less sure. “What do you mean, diagram?”
    “I can’t— see what it marks through the glass.”
    “Blasej, what does it look like out there?” Marco muttered.
    “Just a couple old farts, picking up pensions. One or two nobodies in the library.”
    “Good. Help me with this—also, give me a knife.”
    A glitter in the lamplight, as the blade was thrown through the air. Blasej loped toward Erik and me.
    “Help you with what?” Dr. Riccardi asked, as Erik lowered me to the ground. “Why would you need a knife?”
    The two brutes yanked the map off the wall before flipping it over to reveal its canvas and paper backing. Marco brought down the knife to tear the frame open with a great, loud rip .
    “Even if you were right, which is impossible! This would be a matter for experts — conservationists ,” Dr. Riccardi squawked. “Good God, you cretin, hands off—Adriana !”
    Marco pulled the map out of its frame, but with great care and delicacy. “Domenico, clear off a space on the table.”
    Erik’s ruddy face twisted. “The lady said not to do that.”
    Marco did not so much as look at him. I still clutched the letter’s signature page as a terrible, voluptuous anticipation began to tingle through me.
    “Yes, Marco, stop it,” I managed to say.
    He looked at me over his shoulder. “I see you . Don’t make me laugh.” He carried the map over to the dining table, placing it down gingerly. He briefly touched the vellum, the reddish gold leaf, as if admiring the workmanship. “And Dr. Riccardi, you can’t tell me you’re not curious.”
    “This isn’t the way we do things here—thuggishly—you of all people should know that, Marco, you’re a man of taste, of finesse—”
    “Qualities that I have been heroically suppressing in order to withstand the constant sound of your chatter, Doctor—”
    Their voices faded in my ears, as my concentration narrowed with such an intensity that my vision seemed reflected in a convex mirror.
    The map glimmered on the table, its irresistible, half-visible ciphers of gold, woad blue, and crimson waiting to be changed by me.
    I walked over to it in a fever.
    The onionskin page shone like a fragment of light in my hand. I pressed it to the map, fitting the opal text to its intended lineaments.
    This is what we saw:

10
    “It’s the four cities,” I shouted through the room. “The ones in the rhyme.”
    “ A in Antonio corresponds to Florence.” Erik glared down at the table over my shoulder. “The B in—”
    “Beato!” Dr. Riccardi butted her face against the other side of my head.
    “Marks Siena,” I said. “The C in Cagliostro is Rome, and...here,