The telephone rang, and he crossed quickly to grab the handset off its cradle. "Hello?"
"Ras Iskinder." Barstow's usual grave tone was almost relaxed, and Iskinder crossed his fingers like a child. "I have some excellent news. The other agent has withdrawn his last offer — he says he misunderstood his client's instructions, though I think the client got cold feet. Judson has agreed to accept our previous offer, the last one before Judson suggested the auction." He paused. "I do feel I should say again that this is a high price for these items —"
"I do understand that," Iskinder said, and tried to make his smile audible, "but they are precious to my people, and worth a great deal on that ground alone."
"Well, you have them now," Barstow said. "All four of them, and Judson says I'm welcome to collect them any time. I can pick up your check at your convenience, and complete the transaction today if you'd like."
Iskinder paused. Something was prickling at the back of his neck, an odd, thundery feeling, action in suspension. "Thank you," he said, "but that won't be necessary. I'll collect the objects myself, and deliver the check at the same time. I'll put your commission in the mail today as well, and there will be a small bonus to your commission, in thanks for a difficult job handled superbly."
That placated him, as Iskinder had known it would, and he wound up the conversation with more expressions of respect and set the handset in its cradle. The thunder still lingered, raising the hairs at the nape of his neck. Frowning, he took out his checkbook, filled out Barstow's check and scrawled a note of thanks. He sealed the envelope, addressed it, found a stamp, but the unease neither abated nor resolved itself into something more substantial, and he closed his eyes, letting his thoughts roam. Trouble, certainly — trouble lurking, trouble to do with the medallion — Pelley's men had given up on buying it, would try again to take it instead. They were expecting Barstow, after all.
He opened his eyes, frowning, all the pieces taking shape. He'd need Jerry, yes, and Alma, he couldn't afford to waste a trained magician, no matter how little he liked running her into danger. He picked up the telephone again and waited for the operator.
Alma met him in the lobby, and he explained the situation, low-voiced, which they waited for Jerry. He arrived just as Iskinder finished, limping awkwardly across the polished floor.
"Something's wrong," he said, not waiting for a greeting. "I can feel it."
"You're not usually clairvoyant," Alma said, and Jerry shook his head.
"No, but I warded the medallion. I'm tied to it at the moment. So what's wrong?"
"Pelley's withdrawn his bid," Iskinder said. Jerry opened his mouth to comment, and Iskinder plunged on. "I know, I don't believe it, either. I've said I'll pick the items up myself, and — well, that's the best I can do."
"I wish I had Lewis and his deer rifle," Alma said, and shrugged as Iskinder gave her a sharp glance. "I know, it won't do, not in New York."
"Not unless you want Winchell really to have something to talk about," Iskinder said.
"I know," Alma said again. "I'd settle for a pistol."
"Our cab's waiting," Jerry said, and Iskinder nodded.
"Let's go."
At Iskinder's insistence, the cabbie let them out at the nearest corner and they walked down the long crosstown block until they found the building. It looked very much like its neighbors, gray stone darkened by the city's grime, and the building's name — Petrangeli Bros., flanked by a pair of sullen putti — was carved in paler stone above the doorway. The angels looked watchful, Iskinder thought and his steps faltered as he realized just how true that was.
"Warded," Jerry said, softly, and Alma nodded, staring up at the angels. Her eyes flickered closed for an instant, and Iskinder knew she was feeling out the extent of the protection.
"It's part of the building," she said, after a moment. "And it's been here a long time. It's kind of faded."
It didn't feel like the power used against them at the Met, either, Iskinder thought, and looked at Jerry, who shrugged.
"Let's go in."
The lobby was as ordinary as the exterior, brown linoleum underfoot, a directory board with yellowed letters behind locked glass, two dimly lit corridors stretching into the back. The board said that Judson's office was on the second floor, and Jerry shook his head.
"I'd have expected Judson to have a nicer place, somehow, but —"
His voice trailed off as though he didn't want to mention the wards aloud, and Iskinder nodded. "I imagine it serves his purpose." He could feel the wards in the bones of the building, wavy and attenuated in places, though still present, but the sense of unease didn't lessen. "Let's go up."
There was no elevator, just the echoing stone stairs, lit by a leaf-drifted skylight seven stories above their heads. Judson's office was halfway down the right-hand corridor, the light warm behind the pebbled glass with Judson's name painted in black and gold above a small diamond shape that looked almost Masonic. Iskinder knocked, the sound loud in the heavy quiet, and the door swung open under his hand.
"Welcome. Enter and be welcome."
Iskinder stepped through the door, feeling a web of power part for him. Within, the lights seemed brighter, the colors stronger, and Iskinder couldn't help raising his eyebrows. Alma's breath caught, and Jerry lifted his head, the light glinting from his glasses. Iskinder caught a whiff of summer sweetness, flowers out of season, and then it was gone. The narrow lobby was empty except for a pair of armchairs arranged at opposite ends of an oriental carpet, very red against the worn wood floor. There were matching bookcases behind the chairs, their shelves filled with smaller artifacts. Interesting but not valuable, Iskinder noted, and the door to the inner room opened.
A stocky, square-jawed woman in an unflattering pageboy haircut stood there, looking stolidly from one to the other. "We were expecting Mr. Barstow," she said. It was not the voice that had invited them in. There as something odd about her, her heavy stance and the way she moved, her skin grey as skimmed milk against her sober tweeds.
"But Ras Iskinder and his friends are very welcome, Miss Clay."
That was the man who had spoken — Judson, presumably, small and faintly disheveled despite his nice suit, a yarmulke set on his graying hair. He held out his hand.
"I'm Saul Judson, Ras Iskinder."
Iskinder took his hand, aware of the faint shock, like a circuit closing, as they touched, and Judson nodded.
"That will be all, Miss Clay. Won't you come in, gentlemen, ma'am—" His expression was curious, and Iskinder answered the unspoken question.
"Mrs. Segura, Dr. Ballard. They're — colleagues — of mine."
"Very wise," Judson said. He ushered them into a pleasant office lined with more bookcases, its comfort marred only by the lack of windows. Easier to protect, Iskinder thought, from both ordinary and esoteric threats.
Judson saw them seated, then collected an ordinary-looking cardboard box from one of the shelves. The string that held it closed was sealed with a blob of way, and Iskinder, watching closely, wasn't surprised to see Judson's lips move silently before he broke the seal.
"If you wouldn't mind, Ras Iskinder, I'd like you to confirm that these are the items you intended to purchase."
"Of course," Iskinder said. "Dr. Ballard, if you would?"
Jerry came forward eagerly, digging his penknife from his pocket. Iskinder used it to cut the string, then lifted the lid and pulled away the cotton wool that swaddled the artifacts. Yes, there was the African girl — a lovely piece, and one the Emperor would appreciate — the blue glass vial and the Pharos medallion, and finally the Ptolemy medallion, wrapped in an extra twist of something that proved to be silk. He looked up to see that Judson was watching him carefully as well.
"That seemed to want extra protection," he said.
"Yes," Iskinder said, cautiously, and Judson nodded.
"It's also the prize everyone was after."
"Yes," Iskinder said again.
Jerry took the medallion from him, long fingers caressing the surface, then turned his attention to the other objects. "All as they should be," he said, to Iskinder, and began packing everything neatly away.
"It's not such a valuable piece as all that," Judson observed. "In excellent condition, but hardly uncommon. I offered Mr. Pelley a much rarer example at the same price, but he refused. This one or nothing, he said."
Iskinder hesitated, not sure what to say, and Jerry looked up from his packing.
"We can't tell you," he said. "I'm sorry."
"You're the one who protected it," Judson said, and Jerry nodded, though Iskinder could see him brace himself.
"Yeah, that was me."
Judson seemed to relax a little. "You're aware, I think, that this isn't over."
"I feared as much," Iskinder said.
"You're safe here," Judson said. "Here in my office, I mean. The protections here are recent, and they will hold."
"And you have Miss Clay," Jerry said.
Judson nodded. "That, too."
Alma stirred. "Maybe we should leave the things with Mr. Judson —"
"But I don't want them, dear lady," Judson said. "I have wars enough of my own, thank you. I cannot fight yours as well."
A chill ran down Iskinder's spine, and Jerry's mouth tightened, but it was Alma who spoke first.
"Very well, then. It's our responsibility."
Iskinder's skin prickled at that, as though more had been listening than had been intended. If Alma felt it, though, she went on without pause.
"You say we're safe here, but not outside the office?"
"I'm afraid not," Judson answered. He gave an apologetic shrug. "There are wards, but — I've had to rent to all sorts of people these last two years, and I no longer have access to every part of the building. Nor do I have the support that I used to."
"You won't stop us if we have to fight," Alma said.
Judson shook his head. "Nor will anything of mine oppose you in any way."
"Thank you," Alma said, sounding perfectly serene. She had stepped into Gil's shoes, Iskinder realized with a shock, though he couldn't think which of the others he would have chosen to be Magister in her place. She lifted her head then, as though listening for something beyond the range of Iskinder's hearing. "And I think we should be going now."
He felt it then, a dull, distant thud as though a door had closed, the same heaviness he'd felt in the museum.
"They're past the wards," Jerry said.
"Come on," Iskinder said, and opened the office door. The feeling was stronger in the little lobby, and Miss Clay was waiting by the main door, her head cocked slightly to one side as though she, too, were listening.
"Thank you, Miss Clay," Judson said. "They'll just be going now."
Miss Clay gave him a disapproving look, but unfastened the locks and opened the door just enough for them to file out.
"God go with you," Judson said, and added something else in what sounded like Hebrew.
Jerry looked over his shoulder, the box tucked tightly beneath his arm and under his jacket, and answered in the same language. Judson bowed, and closed the door behind them.
The hall seemed suddenly dark, the air close and stale. It was hard to think, hard to move, and Iskinder shook his head hard, trying to drive back the sudden exhaustion that threatened to overcome him.
"They've put the building to sleep," he said, and only then realized he'd spoken aloud.
Jerry crossed himself, centering, then sketched the same cross over both of them. Alma nodded her thanks, and Iskinder straightened, the worst of the dizziness leaving him. The lights flickered and dimmed, fading until the filament glowed orange without giving light. Even the skylight seemed blackened, and the stairs led down into unnaturally deep shadow. He was abruptly certain he did not want to face whatever it hid.
"Is there another way out beside the main stairs?"
"Fire escape?" Alma said doubtfully, and Jerry looked over his shoulder.
"Maybe? We'll have to go through someone's office."
Iskinder was already trying the first door he found. It was locked, and so was the second; the third door gave onto a broom closet and the fourth was the men's room. He checked anyway, but the windows were wired shut, no sign of a fire escape. "Back the other way."
That meant passing the stairs, and he was suddenly unwilling. There was something down there, something dark and shapeless, stealthy as a crocodile, and he saw the same reluctance on Jerry's face. Alma felt it, too, and he saw a shiver run through her.
"There's no other way," she said. "Together, now. On three."
On impulse, Iskinder reached out to take her hand, and Jerry caught his free hand in turn.
"One," Alma said, and faltered. "No. We have to. One, two, three."
She stepped forward briskly, pulling them with her. Iskinder felt the darkness tug at their heels, risked a look over the rail to see something shapeless and inexorable working its way up the stairs. Then they were past, and he released Jerry's hand to try the nearest doorknob. It opened to his touch, and they piled into the open space, Iskinder locking the door again behind them. He could just read the letters painted in reverse on the pebbled glass: Ronald Lake, Rare Coins.
For a moment, he thought the room was empty, but then he saw the young woman slumped over her typewriter, her head pillowed on her folded arms. She seemed to be the only staff member, though an older man — Lake himself, presumably — was asleep in his chair in the inner office, his toupee pushed slightly askew. Behind him, the door of his safe stood open, and Iskinder was tempted to close it, just in case Pelley's men had more thefts in mind.
"Through here," Jerry said, and Iskinder shook himself back to the moment.
The fire escape opened off the window of the room Lake used as a storeroom, though the secretary had let her notebooks and ledgers pile up on the table in front of it. Jerry grimaced, pushing them aside, then stood for a moment to study the window. It looked odd, as though the wires sandwiched between the panes of glass were thicker than was proper, and Iskinder realized he was seeing an effect of the spell.