front room where Mrs. Reddenhurst sat with two of her guests, television blaring, and into the empty library. Mrs. Reddenhurst's computer sat on the desk, a four-year-old Mac with a twelve-inch monitor. He turned it on, examined the connections, and extended his hand. "We can do it. Where's the memory?"
Tasya slid into the chair. "Right here." She pulled the memory out of her pocket and stuck it into the reader.
She halfway expected Rurik to try to evict her from her seat, but he pulled up a chair and sat by her left shoulder. "Are the pictures there?"
She loaded the photos in the program, brought them up, and gave a sigh of relief. "It looks as if there's no problem."
Yesterday she had taken hundreds of photos of the site, the treasure chest, and all its contents, but she zipped past those to get to ones she'd taken this morning.
She winced when she saw the number—only a few dozen of a panel three feet long and densely covered with figures, symbols, and writing. She squinted. The monitor wasn't good; everything was tinted green, and the resolution was lousy. "How's your Old English?" she asked.
"Not good, but luckily this carving was made only a few years before the Norman invasion, so we're getting close to Middle English. Plus most of the story is told in pictures." He pointed to the first photo. "Can you enlarge that?"
She did, and the two of them studied her view of the wall.
She pointed to the figure on the left. "Clovus is a warlord—he beheads his enemies until they're a great pile of bodies beneath his feet, and the other warriors cower before him."
"I've found the proof of that," Rurik agreed.
"He cuts a swath of destruction through Europe, and the only one who can stand against him is this guy." She pointed at the stick figure, crudely drawn, of a crowned figure with one eye and a melted face. "Makes you wonder what the king was like if he managed to outdo Clovus the Beheader."
"There were a lot of charmers in those days."
She brought up the next photo, and realized it helped if she sat back and looked at the overall picture rather than trying to decipher every line. "Clovus took a boat." She knew it was Clovus, since he'd brought along a dripping souvenir head. "So I'm guessing he crossed the channel to England."
Rurik pointed to some script. "That's what it says here."
She squinted at the monitor. "Really? That's what that says? I should have studied more Beowulf."
"I'm glad to discover a reason I did." Rurik put his hand on the back of her neck and used his fingers to massage away the knot there.
If she was smart, she'd tell him to knock it off. But he used his hands with real talent, and she'd had a long day. A very long, very tense day. "Okay. So this time, Clovus cut a swath through the English countryside, right up until the time he met—" She enlarged the picture. "He met the devil?" This kept getting better and better.
"Cloven hooves. Tail. Yep, that's the devil." Rurik sounded prosaic.
"Clovus really hung around with the wrong crowd." She controlled her excitement and brought up the next photo. "The devil gave him a wonderful present."
"The Hershey bar." Rurik pointed at the square that was changing hands.
"Oh, bite me." But she was concentrating too hard and his massage was too good for her to put much vitriol behind her insult. "What do you think it is?"
"I don't know."
"See that glow around it? I think it must be a gold tablet."
"You might be right."
She twisted to look at him. "What's wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"You sound so ... neutral. And you look—" He looked funny. Sort of knowing, and filled with suppressed excitement. "You're the archaeologist. I'm only the amateur. Am I reading this wrong?"
"You're reading it exactly as I would. Except . . . I don't think that's gold." He pointed at the screen, at the object the devil gave Clovus.
"What do you think it is?"
"I think it's a holy object."
"Because of the halo." That shot her theory about the Varinski treasure
Tasya slid into the chair. "Right here." She pulled the memory out of her pocket and stuck it into the reader.
She halfway expected Rurik to try to evict her from her seat, but he pulled up a chair and sat by her left shoulder. "Are the pictures there?"
She loaded the photos in the program, brought them up, and gave a sigh of relief. "It looks as if there's no problem."
Yesterday she had taken hundreds of photos of the site, the treasure chest, and all its contents, but she zipped past those to get to ones she'd taken this morning.
She winced when she saw the number—only a few dozen of a panel three feet long and densely covered with figures, symbols, and writing. She squinted. The monitor wasn't good; everything was tinted green, and the resolution was lousy. "How's your Old English?" she asked.
"Not good, but luckily this carving was made only a few years before the Norman invasion, so we're getting close to Middle English. Plus most of the story is told in pictures." He pointed to the first photo. "Can you enlarge that?"
She did, and the two of them studied her view of the wall.
She pointed to the figure on the left. "Clovus is a warlord—he beheads his enemies until they're a great pile of bodies beneath his feet, and the other warriors cower before him."
"I've found the proof of that," Rurik agreed.
"He cuts a swath of destruction through Europe, and the only one who can stand against him is this guy." She pointed at the stick figure, crudely drawn, of a crowned figure with one eye and a melted face. "Makes you wonder what the king was like if he managed to outdo Clovus the Beheader."
"There were a lot of charmers in those days."
She brought up the next photo, and realized it helped if she sat back and looked at the overall picture rather than trying to decipher every line. "Clovus took a boat." She knew it was Clovus, since he'd brought along a dripping souvenir head. "So I'm guessing he crossed the channel to England."
Rurik pointed to some script. "That's what it says here."
She squinted at the monitor. "Really? That's what that says? I should have studied more Beowulf."
"I'm glad to discover a reason I did." Rurik put his hand on the back of her neck and used his fingers to massage away the knot there.
If she was smart, she'd tell him to knock it off. But he used his hands with real talent, and she'd had a long day. A very long, very tense day. "Okay. So this time, Clovus cut a swath through the English countryside, right up until the time he met—" She enlarged the picture. "He met the devil?" This kept getting better and better.
"Cloven hooves. Tail. Yep, that's the devil." Rurik sounded prosaic.
"Clovus really hung around with the wrong crowd." She controlled her excitement and brought up the next photo. "The devil gave him a wonderful present."
"The Hershey bar." Rurik pointed at the square that was changing hands.
"Oh, bite me." But she was concentrating too hard and his massage was too good for her to put much vitriol behind her insult. "What do you think it is?"
"I don't know."
"See that glow around it? I think it must be a gold tablet."
"You might be right."
She twisted to look at him. "What's wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"You sound so ... neutral. And you look—" He looked funny. Sort of knowing, and filled with suppressed excitement. "You're the archaeologist. I'm only the amateur. Am I reading this wrong?"
"You're reading it exactly as I would. Except . . . I don't think that's gold." He pointed at the screen, at the object the devil gave Clovus.
"What do you think it is?"
"I think it's a holy object."
"Because of the halo." That shot her theory about the Varinski treasure
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